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A Preferred Picture . 


SHE’S MY GIRL ! HANDS OFF ! ” 


The Plastic Age. 






THE PLASTIC AGE 


BY 

PERCY MARKS 

I i 


ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES 
FROM THE PHOTOPLAY 
A PREFERRED PICTURE 



GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


Made in the United States of America 







TX3 


n 



Copyright, 1924, by 
The Century Co. 


*Xrans? evred 

froia 

Beading ' 


PRINTED IN TJ. S. A. 





t 



To 

MY MOTHER 

%x> 






















THE PLASTIC AGE 


CHAPTER I 


W HEN an American sets out to found a 
college, he hunts first for a hill. John 
Harvard was an Englishman and in¬ 
different to high places. The result is that Har¬ 
vard has become a university of vast proportions 
and no color. Yale flounders about among the 
New Haven shops, trying to rise above them. The 
Harkness Memorial tower is successful; otherwise 
the university smells of trade. If Yale had been 
built on a hill, it would probably be far less impor¬ 
tant and much more interesting. 

Hezekiah Sanford was wise; he found first his 
hill and then founded his college, believing prob¬ 
ably that any one ambitious enough to climb the 
hill was a man fit to wrestle with learning and, if 
need be, with Satan himself. Satan was ever be¬ 
fore Hezekiah, and he fought him valiantly, exor¬ 
cising him every morning in chapel and every eve¬ 
ning at prayers. The first students of Sanford Col¬ 
lege learned Latin and Greek and to fear the devil. 
3 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


4 

There are some who declare that their successors 
learn less. 

Hezekiah built Sanford Hall, a fine Georgian 
building, performed the duties of trustees, presi¬ 
dent, dean, and faculty for thirty years, and then 
passed to his reward, leaving three thousand acres, 
his library of five hundred books, mostly sermons, 
Sanford Hall, and a charter that opened the gates 
of Sanford to all men so that they might “find the 
true light of God and the glory of Jesus in the halls 
of this most liberal college.” 

More than a century had passed since Hezekiah 
was laid to rest in Haydensville’s cemetery. The 
college had grown miraculously and changed even 
more miraculously. Only the hill and its beauti¬ 
ful surroundings remained the same. Indian Lake, 
on the south of the campus, still sparkled in the sun¬ 
light; on the east the woods were as virgin as they 
had been a hundred and fifty years before. Hay- 
densville, still only a village, surrounded the col¬ 
lege on the west and north. 

Hezekiah’s successors had done strange things 
to his campus. There were dozens of buildings 
now surrounding Sanford Hall, and they revealed 
ail the types of architecture popular since Hezekiah 
had thundered his last defiance at Satan. There 
were fine old colonial buildings, their windows out¬ 
lined by English ivy; ponderous Romanesque build¬ 
ings made of stone, grotesque and hideous; a 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


5 

pseudoGothic chapel with a tower of surpassing 
loveliness; and four laboratories of the purest fac¬ 
tory design. But despite the conglomerate and 
sometimes absurd architecture—a Doric temple 
neighbored a Byzantine mosque—the campus was 
beautiful. Lawns, often terraced, stretched every¬ 
where, and the great elms lent a dignity to Sanford 
College that no architect, however stupid, could 
quite efface. 

This first day of the new college year was glo¬ 
rious in the golden haze of Indian summer. The 
lake was silver blue, the long reflections of the 
trees twisting and bending as a soft breeze ruffled 
the surface into tiny waves. The hills already bril¬ 
liant with color—scarlet, burnt orange, mauve, and 
purple—flamed up to meet the clear blue sky; the 
elms softly rustled their drying leaves; the white 
houses of the village retreated coyly behind 
maples and firs and elms: everywhere there was 
peace, the peace that comes with strength that has 
been stronger than time. 

As Hugh Carver hastened up the hill from the 
station, his two suit-cases banged his legs and 
tripped him. He could hardly wait to reach the 
campus. The journey had been intolerably long 
—Haydensville was more than three hundred miles 
from Merrytown, his home—and he was wild to 
find his room in Surrey Hall. He wondered how 
he would like his room-mate, Peters. . . . What’s 


6 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

his name? Oh, yes, Carl. . . . The registrar had 
written that Peters had gone to Kane School. . . . 
Must be pretty line. Ought to be first-class to 
room with. . . . Hugh hoped that Peters would n’t 
think that he was too country. . . * 

Hugh was a slender lad who looked considerably 
less than his eighteen years. A gray cap concealed 
his sandy brown hair, which he parted on the side 
and which curled despite all his brushing. His crys¬ 
talline blue eyes, his small, neatly carved nose, his 
sensitive mouth that hid a shy and appealing smile, 
were all very boyish. He seemed young, almost 
pathetically young. 

People invariably called him a nice boy, and he 
did n’t like it; in fact, he wanted to know how they 
got that way. They gave him the pip, that’s 
what they did. He guessed that a fellow who 
could run the hundred in io :% and out-box any¬ 
body in high school was n’t such a baby. Why, he 
had overheard one of the old maid teachers call 
him sweet. Sweet! Cripes, that old hen made 
him sick. She was always pawing him and sticking 
her skinny hands in his hair. He was darn glad 
to get to college where there were only men 
teachers. 

Women always wanted to get their hands into his 
hair, and boys liked him on sight. Many of those 
who were streaming up the hill before and behind 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


7 

him, who passed him or whom he passed, glanced 
at his eager face and thought that there was a guy 
they’d like to know. 

An experienced observer would have divided 
those boys into three groups: preparatory school 
boys, carelessly at ease, well dressed, or, as the col¬ 
lege argot has it, “smooth”; boys from city schools, 
not so well dressed perhaps, certainly not so sure 
of themselves; and country boys, many of them 
miserably confused and some of them clad in Kol- 
lege Kut Klothes that they would shamefacedly dis¬ 
card within a week, 

Hugh finally reached the top of the hill, and the 
campus was before him. He had visited the col¬ 
lege once with his father and knew his way about. 
Eager as he was to reach Surrey Hall, he paused to 
admire the pseudo-Gothic chapel. He felt a little 
thrill of pride as he stared in awe at the magnifi¬ 
cent building. It had been willed to the college by 
an alumnus who had made millions selling rotten 
pork. 

Hugh skirted two of the factory laboratories, 
hurried between the Doric temple and Byzantine 
mosque, paused five times to direct confused class¬ 
mates, passed a dull red colonial building, and fi¬ 
nally stood before Surrey Hall, a large brick dor¬ 
mitory half covered by ivy. 

He hurried up-stairs and down a corridor until 


8 THE PLASTIC AGE 

he found a door with 19 on it. He knocked. 

“What th’ hell! Come in.” The voice was im¬ 
patiently cheerful. 

Hugh pushed open the door and entered the 
room to meet wild confusion—and his room-mate. 
The room was a clutter of suit-cases, «trunks, 
clothes, banners, unpacked furniture, pillows, pic¬ 
tures, golf-sticks, tennis-rackets, and photographs— 
dozens of photographs, all of them of girls appar¬ 
ently. In the middle of the room a boy was on his 
knees before an open trunk. He had sleek black 
hair, parted meticulously in the center, a slender 
face with rather sharp features and large black 
eyes that almost glittered. His lips were full and 
very red, almost too red, and his cheeks seemed to 
be colored with a hard blush. 

“Hullo,” he said in a clear voice as Hugh 
came in. “Who are you?” 

Hugh flushed slightly. “I’m Carver,” he an¬ 
swered, “Hugh Carver.” 

The other lad jumped to his feet, revealing, to 
Hugh’s surprise, golf knickers. He was tall, slen¬ 
der, and very neatly built. 

“Hell!” he exclaimed. “I ought to have 
guessed that.” He held out his hand. “I’m Carl 
Peters, the guy you’ve got to room with—and God 
help you.” 

Hugh dropped his suit-cases and shook hands. 
“Guess I can stand it,” he said with a quick laugh 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


9 


to hide his embarrassment. “Maybe you ’ll need 
a little of God’s help yourself.” Diffident and un¬ 
sure, he smiled—and Peters liked him on the 
spot. 

“Chase yourself,” Peters said easily. “I know 
a good guy when I see one. Sit down somewhere 
—er, here.” He brushed a pile of clothes off a 
trunk to the floor with one sweep of his arm. 
“Rest yourself after climbing that goddamn hill. 
Christ! It’s a bastard, that hill is. Say, your 
trunk’s down-stairs. I saw it. I ’ll help you bring 
it up soon’s you’ve got your wind.” 

Hugh was rather dazzled by the rapid, staccato 
talk, and, to tell the truth, he was a little shocked 
by the profanity. Not that he was n’t used to pro¬ 
fanity; he had heard plenty of that in Merrytown, 
but he did n’t expect somehow that a college man— 
that is, a prep-school man—would use it. He felt 
that he ought to make some reply to Peters’s talk, 
but he did n’t know just what would do. Peters 
saved him the trouble. 

“I ’ll tell you, Carver—oh, hell, I’m going to 
call you Hugh—we ’re going to have a swell joint 
here. Quite the darb. Three rooms, you know; 
a bedroom for each of us and this big study. I’ve 
brought most of the junk that I had at Kane, and 
I s’pose you’ve got some of your own.” 

“Not much,” Hugh replied, rather ashamed of 
what he thought might be considered stinginess. 


10 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

He hastened to explain that he did n’t know what 
Carl would have; so he thought that he had better 
wait and get his stuff at college. 

“That’s the bean,” exclaimed Carl. He had 
perched himself on the window-seat. He threw 
one well shaped leg over the other and gazed at 
Hugh admiringly. “You certainly used the old 
bean. Say, I’ve got a hell of a lot of truck here, 
and if you’d ’a’ brought much, we’d ’a’ been 
swamped. . . . Say, I ’ll tell you how we ’ll fix this 
dump.” He jumped up, led Hugh on a tour of the 
rooms, discussed the disposal of the various pieces 
of furniture with enormous gusto, and finally 
pointed to the photographs. 

“Hope you don’t mind my harem,” he said, mak¬ 
ing a poor attempt to hide his pride. 

“It’s some harem,” replied Hugh in honest awe. 
Again he felt ashamed. He had pictures of his 
father and mother, and that was all. He’d write 
to Helen for one right away. “Where’d you get 
all of ’em? You’ve certainly got a collection.” 

“Sure have. The album of hearts I’ve broken. 
When I’ve kissed a girl twice I make her give me 
her picture. I’ve forgotten the names of some of 
these janes. I collected ten at Bar Harbor this 
summer and three at Christmas Cove. Say, this 
kid—” he fished through a pile of pictures—“was 
the hottest little devil I ever met.” He passed to 
Hugh a cabinet photograph of a standard flapper. 


THE PLASTIC AGE n 

“Pet? My God!” He cast his eyes ceilingward 
ecstatically. 

Hugh’s mind was a battle-field of disapproval 
and envy. Carl dazzled and confused him. He 
had often listened to the recitals of their exploits by 
the Merrytown Don Juans, but this good-looking, 
sophisticated lad evidently had a technique and 
breadth of experience quite unknown to Merry- 
town. He wanted badly to hear more, but time 
was flying and he had n’t even begun to unpack. 

“Will you help me bring up my trunk?” he asked 
half shyly. 

“Oh, hell, yes. I’d forgotten all about that. 
Come on.” 

They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, 
arranging and rearranging the furniture and pic¬ 
tures. They found a restaurant and had dinner. 
Then they returned to 19 Surrey and rearranged 
the furniture once more, pausing occasionally to 
chat while Carl smoked. He offered Hugh a ciga¬ 
rette. Hugh explained that he did not smoke, that 
he was a sprinter and that the coaches said that 
cigarettes were bad for a runner. 

“Right-o,” said Carl, respecting the reason thor¬ 
oughly. “I can’t run worth a damn myself, but 
I’m not bad at tennis—not very good, either. 
Say, if you ’re a runner you ought to make a fra¬ 
ternity easy. Got your eye on one?” 

“Well,” said Hugh, “my father’s a Nu Delt.” 


12 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


<0 

“The Nu Delts. Phew! High-hat as hell.” 
He looked at Hugh enviously. “Say, you certainly 
are set. Well, my old man never went to college, 
but I want to tell you that he left us a whale of a 
lot of jack when he passed out a couple of years 
ago.” 

“What!” Hugh exclaimed, staring at him in 
blank astonishment. 

In an instant Carl was on his feet, his flashing 
eyes dimmed by tears. “My old man was the best 
scout that ever lived—the best damned old scout 
that ever lived.” His sophistication was all gone; 
he was just a small boy, heartily ashamed of him¬ 
self and ready to cry. “I want you to know that,” 
he ended defiantly. 

At once Hugh was all sympathy. “Sure, I 
know,” he said softly. Then he smiled and added, 
“So’s mine.” 

Carl’s face lost its lugubriousness in a broad grin. 
“I’m a fish,” he announced. “Let’s hit the hay.” 

“You said it!” 


CHAPTER II 


H 


UGH wrote two letters before he went 
to bed, one to his mother and father and 
the other to Helen Simpson. His let¬ 
ter to Helen was very brief, merely a request for 
her photograph. 

Then, his mind in a whirl of excitement, he went 
to bed and lay awake dreaming, thinking of Carl, 
the college, and, most of all, of Helen and his walk 
with her the day before. 

He had called on her to say good-by. They had 
been “going together” for a year, and she was gen¬ 
erally considered his girl. She was a pretty child 
with really beautiful brown hair, which she had 
foolishly bobbed, lively blue eyes, and an absurdly 
tiny snub nose. She was little, with quick, eager 
hands—a shallow creature who was proud to be 
seen with Hugh because he had been captain of 
the high-school track team. But she did wish that 
he was n’t so slow. Why, he had kissed her only 
once, and that had been a silly peck on the cheek. 
Perhaps he was just shy, but sometimes she was al¬ 
most sure that he was “plain dumb.” 

13 



i 4 THE PLASTIC AGE 

They had walked silently along the country road 
to the woods that skirted the town. An early frost 
had already touched the foliage with scarlet and 
orange. They sat down on a fallen log, and Hugh 
gazed at a radiant maple-tree. 

Helen let her hand drop lightly on his. “Think¬ 
ing of me?” she asked softly. 

Hugh squeezed her hand. “Yes,” he whispered, 
and looked at the ground while he scuffed some 
fallen leaves with the toe of his shoe. 

“I am going to miss you, Hughie—oh, awfully. 
Are you going to miss me?” 

He held her hand tightly and said nothing. He 
was aware only of her hand. His throat seemed 
to be stopped, choked with something. 

A bird that should have been on its way south 
chirped from a tree near by. The sound made 
Hugh look up. He noticed that the shadows were 
lengthening. He and Helen would have to start 
back pretty soon or he would be late for dinner. 
There was still packing to do; his mother had said 
that his father wanted to have a talk with him— 
and through all his thoughts there ran like a fiery 
red line the desire to kiss the girl whose hand was 
clasped in his. 

He turned slightly toward her. “Hughie,” she 
whispered and moved close to him. His heart 
stopped as he loosened her hand from his and put 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


i5 


his arm around her. With a contented sigh she 
rested her head on one shoulder and her hand on 
the other. “Hughie dear,” she breathed softly. 

He hesitated no longer. His heart was beating 
so that he could not speak, but he bent and kissed 
her. And there they sat for half an hour more, 
close in each other’s embrace, speaking no words, 
but losing themselves in kisses that seemed to have 
no end. 

Finally Hugh realized that darkness had fallen. 
He drew the yielding girl to her feet and started 
home, his arm around her. When they reached 
her gate, he embraced her once more and kissed her 
as if he could never let her go. A light flashed in 
a window. Frightened, he tried to leave, but she 
clung to him. 

“I must go,” he whispered desperately. 

*‘I’m going to miss you awfully.” He thought 
<ihat she was weeping—and kissed her again. 
Then as another window shot light into the yard, 
he forced her arms from around his neck. 

“Good-by, Helen. Write to me.” His voice 
was rough and husky. 

“Oh, I will. Good-by—darling.” 

He walked home tingling with emotion. He 
wanted to shout; he felt suddenly grown up. 
Golly, but Helen was a little peach. He felt her 
arms around his neck again, her lips pressed mad- 


16 THE PLASTIC AGE 

deningly to his. For an instant he was dizzy. . . * 

As he lay in bed in 19 Surrey thinking of Helen, 
he tried to summon that glorious intoxication again. 
But he failed. Carl, the college, registration—a 
thousand thoughts intruded themselves. Already 
Helen seemed far away, a little nebulous. He 
wondered why. . . , 



CHAPTER III 

F OR the next few days Carl and Hugh did 
little but wait in line. They lined up to 
register; they lined up to pay tuition; they 
lined up to shake hands with President Culver; they 
lined up to talk for two quite useless minutes with 
the freshman dean; they lined up to be assigned 
seats in the commons. Carl suggested that he and 
Hugh line up in the study before going to bed so 
that they would keep in practice. Then they had 
to attend lectures given by various members of the 
faculty about college customs, college manners, col¬ 
lege honor, college everything. After the sixth of 
them, Hugh, thoroughly weary and utterly con¬ 
fused, asked Carl if he now had any idea of what 
college was. 

“Yes,” replied Carl; “it’s a young ladies’ school 
for very nice boys.” 

“Well,” Hugh said desperately, “if I have to 
listen to about two more awfully noble lectures, 
I’m going to get drunk. I have a hunch that col¬ 
lege is n’t anything like what these old birds say it 
is. I hope not, anyway.” 

“Course it is n’t. Say, why wait for two more 
17 


i8 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


of the damn things to kill you oil?” He pulled a 
flask out of his desk drawer and held it out in¬ 
vitingly. 

Hugh laughed. “You told me yourself that that 
stuff was catgut and that you would n’t drink it on 
a bet. Besides, you know that I don’t drink. If 
I’m going to make my letter, I’ve got to keep in 
trim.” 

“Right you are. Wish I knew what to do with 
this poison. If I leave it around here, the biddy ’ll 
get hold of it, and then God help us. I ’ll tell you 
what: after it gets dark to-night we ’ll take it down 
and poison the waters of dear old Indian Lake.” 

“All right. Say, I’ve got to pike along; I’ve 
got a date with my faculty adviser. Hope I don’t 
have to stand in line.” 

He didn’t have to stand in line—he was per¬ 
mitted to sit—but he did have to wait an hour and 
a half. Finally a student came out of the inner 
office, and a gruff voice from within called, “Next!” 

“Just like a barber shop,” flashed across Hugh’s 
mind as he entered the tiny office. 

An old-young man was sitting behind a desk shuf¬ 
fling papers. He glanced up as Hugh came in and 
motioned him to a chair beside him. Hugh sat 
down and stared at his feet. 

“Urn, let’s see. Your name’s—what?” 

“Carver, sir. Hugh Carver.” 

The adviser, Professor Kane, glanced at some 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


19 

notes. “Oh, yes, from Merrytown High School, 
fully accredited. Are you taking an A.B. or a 
B.S.?” 

“I—I don’t know.” 

“You have to have one year of college Latin for 
a B.S. and at least two years of Greek besides for 
an A.B.” 

“Oh!” Hugh was frightened and confused. 
He knew that his father was an A.B., but he had 
heard the high-school principal say that Greek was 
useless nowadays. Suddenly he remembered: the 
principal had advised him to take a B.S.; he had 
said that it was more practical. 

“I guess I’d better take a B.S.,” he said softly. 

“Very well.” Professor Kane, who had n’t yet 
looked at Hugh, picked up a schedule card. “Any 
middle name?” he asked abruptly. 

“Yes, sir—Meredith.” 

Kane scribbled H. M. Carver at the top of the 
card and then proceeded to fill it in rapidly. He 
hastily explained the symbols that he was using, 
but he did not say anything about the courses. 
When he had completed the schedule, he copied it 
on another card, handed one to Hugh, and stuck 
the other into a filing-box. 

“Anything else?” he asked, turning his blond, 
blank face toward Hugh for the first time. 

Hugh stood up. There were a dozen questions 
that he wanted to ask. “No, sir,” he replied. 


20 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

“Very well, then. I am your regular adviser. 
You will come to me when you need assistance. 
Good day.” 

“Good day, sir,” and as Hugh passed out of the 
door, the gruff voice bawled, “Next!” The boy 
nearest the door rose and entered the sanctum. 

Hugh sought the open air and gazed at the 
hieroglyphics on the card. “Guess they mean 
something,” he mused, “but how am I going to find 
out?” A sudden fear made him blanch. “I bet 
I get into the wrong places. Oh, golly!” 

Then came the upper-classmen, nearly seven hun¬ 
dred of them. The quiet campus became a bedlam 
of excitement and greetings. “Hi, Jack. Didya 
have a good summer?” . . . “Well, Tom, oV kid, 
I sure am glad to see you back.” . . . “Put her 
there, ol’ scout; it’s sure good to see you.” Every¬ 
where the same greetings: “Didya have a good 
summer? Glad to see you back.” Every one 
called every one else by his first name; every one 
shook hands with astonishing vigor, usually clutch¬ 
ing the other fellow by the forearm at the same 
time. How cockily these lads went around the 
campus! No confusion or fear for them; they 
knew what to do. 

For the first time Hugh felt a pang of homesick¬ 
ness; for the first time he realized that he wasn’t 
yet part of the college. He clung close to Carl and 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


21 


one or two other lads in Surrey with whom he 
picked up an acquaintance, and Carl clung close to 
Hugh, careful to hide the fact that he felt very 
small and meek. For the first time he realized 
that he was just a freshman—and he did n’t like it. 

Then suddenly the tension, which had been gath¬ 
ering for a day or so, broke. Orders went out 
from the upper-classmen that all freshmen put on 
their baby bonnets, silly little blue caps with a 
bright orange button. From that moment every 
freshman was doomed. Work was their lot, and 
plenty of it. “Hi, freshman, carry up my trunk. 
Yeah, you, freshman—you with the skinny legs. 
You and your fat friend carry my trunk up to the 
fourth floor—and if you drop it, I ’ll break your 
fool necks.” . . . “Freshman! go down to the sta¬ 
tion and get my suit-cases. Here are the checks. 
Hurry back if you know what’s good for you.” 
. . . “Freshman! go up to Hill Twenty-eight and 
put the beds together.” . . . “Freshman! come up 
to my room. I want you to hang pictures.” 

Fortunately the labor did not last long, but while 
it lasted Hugh was hustled around as he never had 
been before. And he loved it. He loved his blue 
cap and its orange button; he loved the upper¬ 
classmen who called him freshman and ordered him 
around; he loved the very trunks that he lugged 
so painfully up-stairs. He was being recognized, 
merely as a janitor, it is true, but recognized; at 


-22 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


last he was a part of Sanford College. Further, 
one of the men who had ordered him around the 
most fiercely wore a Nu Delta pin, the emblem of 
his father’s fraternity. He ran that man’s errands 
with such speed and willingness that the hero de¬ 
cided that the freshman was “very, very dumb.” 

That night Hugh and Carl sat in 19 Surrey and 
rested their aching bones, one on a couch, the other 
in a leather Morris chair. 

“Hot stuff, wasn’t it?” said Hugh, stretching 
out comfortably. 

“Hot stuff, hell! How do they get that way?” 

“Never mind; we ’ll do the ordering next year.” 

“Right you are,” said Carl decisively, lighting a 
cigarette, “and won’t I make the little frosh walk.” 
He gazed around the room, his face beaming with 
satisfaction. “Say, we ’re pretty snappy here, 
are n’t we?” 

Hugh, too, looked around admiringly. The 
walls were almost hidden by banners, a huge San¬ 
ford blanket—Hugh’s greatest contribution—Carl’s 
Kane blanket, the photographs of the “harem,” 
posters of college athletes and movie bathing-girls, 
pipe-racks, and three Maxfield Parrish prints. 

“It certainly is fine,” said Hugh proudly. “All 
we need is a barber pole and a street sign.” 

“We ’ll have ’em before the week is out.” This 
with great decision. 


CHAPTER IV 



ARL’S adviser had been less efficient than 


Hugh’s; therefore he knew what his 


courses were, where the classes met and the 


hours, the names of his instructors, and the require¬ 
ments other than Latin for a B.S. degree. Carl 
said that he was taking a B.S. because he had had 
a year of Greek at Kane and was therefore per¬ 
fectly competent to make full use of the language; 
he could read the letters on the front doors of the 
fraternity houses. 

The boys found that their courses were the same 
but that they were in different sections. Hugh was 
in a dilemma; he could make nothing out of his 
card. 

“Here,” said Carl, “give the thing to me. My 
adviser was a good scout and wised me up. This 
P.C. is n’t paper cutting as you might suppose; it’s 
gym. You ’ll get out of that by signing up for 
track. P.C. means physical culture. Think of 
that! You can sign up for track any time to¬ 
morrow down at the gym. And E i, 7 means that 
you’re in English 1, Section 7; and M is math. 
You ’re in Section 3. Lat means Latin, of course 
—Section 6. My adviser—he tried pretty hard to 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


24 

be funny—said that G.S. was n’t glorious salvation 
but general science. That meets in the big lecture 
hall in Cranston. We all go to that. And H 1, 4 
means that you are in Section 4 of History 1. See? 
That’s all there is to it. Now this thing”—he 
held up a printed schedule—“tells you where the 
classes meet.” 

With a great deal of labor, discussion, and pro- * 
fanity they finally got a schedule made out that 
meant something to Hugh. He heaved a Brob- 
dingnagian sigh of relief when they finished. 

“Well,” he exclaimed, “that’s that! At last I 
know where I ’m going. You certainly saved my 
life. I know where all the buildings are; so it 
ought to be easy.” 

“Sure,” said Carl encouragingly; “it’s easy. 
Now there’s nothing to do till to-morrow until 
eight forty-five when we attend chapel to the glory 
of the Lord. I think I ’ll pray to-morrow; I may 
need it. Christ! I hate to study.” 

“Me, too,” Hugh lied. He really loved books, 
but somehow he could n’t admit the fact, which had 
suddenly become shameful, to Carl. “Let’s go to 
the movies,” he suggested, changing the subject for 
safety. 

“Right-o!” Carl put on his freshman cap and 
flung Hugh’s to him. “Gloria Nielsen is there, 
and she’s a pash baby. Ought to be a good 
fillum.” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


25 

The Blue and Orange—it was the only movie 
theater in town—was almost full when the boys ar¬ 
rived. Only a few seats near the front were still 
vacant. A freshman started down the aisle, his 
“baby bonnet” stuck jauntily on the back of his 
head. 

“Freshman!” . . . “Kill him!” . . . “Murder 
the frosh!” Shouts came from all parts of the 
house, and an instant later hundreds of peanuts 
shot swiftly at the startled freshman. “Cap! 
Cap! Cap off!” There was a panic of excite¬ 
ment. Upper-classmen were standing on their 
chairs to get free throwing room. The freshman 
snatched off his cap, drew his head like a scared 
turtle down into his coat collar, and ran for a seat. 
Hugh and Carl tucked their caps into their coat 
pockets and attempted to stroll nonchalantly down 
the aisle. They had n’t taken three steps before 
the bombardment began. Like their classmate, 
they ran for safety. 

Then some one in the front of the theatre threw 
a peanut at some one in the rear. The fight was 
on! Yelling like madmen, the students stood on 
their chairs and hurled peanuts, the front and rear 
of the house automatically dividing into enemy 
camps. When the fight was at its hottest, three 
girls entered. 

“Wimmen! Wimmen!” As the girls walked 
down the aisle, infinitely pleased with their recep- 


26 THE PLASTIC AGE 

tion, five hundred men stamped in time with their 
steps. 

No sooner were the girls seated than there was a 
scramble in one corner, an excited scuffling of feet. 
“I Ve got it!” a boy screamed. He stood on his 
chair and held up a live mouse by its tail. 
There was a shout of applause and then—“Play 
catch!” 

The boy dropped the writhing mouse into a pea¬ 
nut bag, screwed the open end tight-closed, and 
then threw the bag far across the room. Another 
boy caught it and threw it, this time over the girls’ 
heads. They screamed and jumped upon their 
chairs, holding their skirts, and dancing up and 
down in assumed terror. Back over their heads, 
back and over, again and again the bagged mouse 
was thrown while the girls screamed and the boys 
roared with delight. Suddenly one of the girls 
threw up her arm, caught the bag deftly, held it for 
a second, and then tossed it into the rear of the 
theater. 

Cheers of terrifying violence broke loose: 
“Ray! Ray! Atta girl! Hot dog! .Ray, ray!” 
And then the lights went out. 

“Moosick! Moosick! Moo -sick!” The au¬ 
dience stamped and roared, whistled and howled. 
“Moosick! We want moosick!” 

The pianist, an undergraduate, calmly strolled 
down the aisle. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


27 

“Get a move on!” . . . “Earn your salary!” 
. . . “Give us moosick!” 

The pianist paused to thumb his nose casually at 
the entire audience, and then amid shouts and hisses 
sat down at the piano and began to play “Love 
Nest.” 

Immediately the boys began to whistle, and as 
the comedy was utterly stupid, they relieved their 
boredom by whistling the various tunes that the 
pianist played until the miserable film flickered out. 

Then the “feature” and the fun began. During 
the stretches of pure narrative, the boys whistled, 
but when there was any real action they talked. 
The picture was a melodrama of “love and hate’” 
as the advertisement said. 

The boys told the actors what to do; they re¬ 
vealed to them the secrets of the ‘plot. “She’s 
hiding behind the door, Harold. No, no! Not 
that way. Hey, dumbbell—behind the door.” 
. . . “Catch him, Gloria; he’s only shy!” . . . 
“No, that’s not him!” 

The climactic fight brought shouts of encourag- 
ment—to the villain. “Kill him!” . . . “Shoot 
one to his kidneys!” . . . “Ahhhhh,” as the vil¬ 
lain hit the hero in the stomach. . . . “Muss his 
hair. Attaboy!” . . . “Kill the skunk!” And fi¬ 
nally groans of despair when the hero won his in¬ 
evitable victory. 

But it was the love scenes that aroused the great- 


28 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

est ardor and joy. The hero was given careful 
instructions. “Some neckin’, Harold!” . . . “Kiss 
her! Kiss her! Ahhh!” . . . “Harold, Harold, 
you’re getting rough! . . . “She’s vamping you, 
Harold!” . . . “Stop it; Gloria; he’s a good boy.” 
And so on until the picture ended in the usual close- 
up of the hero and heroine silhouetted in a tender 
embrace against the setting sun. The boys breathed 
“Ahhhh” and “Ooooh” ecstatically—and laughed. 
The meretricious melodrama did not fool them, but 
they delighted in its absurdities. 

The lights flashed on and the crowd filed out, 
“wise-cracking” about the picture and commenting 
favorably on the heroine’s figure. There were 
shouts to this fellow or that fellow to come on over 
and play bridge, and suggestions here and there 
to go to a drug store and get a drink. 

Hugh and Carl strolled home over the dark 
campus, both of them radiant with excitement, Hugh 
frankly so. 

“Golly, I did enjoy that,” he exclaimed. “I 
never had a better time. It was sure hot stuff. I 
don’t want to go to the room; let’s walk for a 
while.” 

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” Carl admitted. 
“Nope, I can’t go walking; gotta write a letter.” 

“Who to? The harem?” 

Carl hunched his shoulders until his ears touched 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


29 

his coat collar. “Gettin’ cold. Fall’s here. 
Nope, not the .harem. My old lady.” 

Hugh looked at him bewildered. He was find¬ 
ing Carl more and more a conundrum. He con¬ 
sistently called his mother his old lady, insisted that 
she was a damned nuisance—and wrote to her 
every night. Hugh was writing to his mother only 
twice a week. It was very confusing. . . . 


CHAPTER V 


C APWELL CHAPEL—it bore the pork 
merchant’s name as an eternal memorial 
to him—was as impressive inside as out. 
The stained-glass windows had been made by a fa¬ 
mous New York firm; the altar had been designed 
by an even more famous sculptor. The walls, quite 
improperly, were adorned with paintings of former 
presidents, but the largest painting of all—it was 
fairly Gargantuan—was of the pork merchant, a 
large, ruddy gentleman, whom the artist, a keen ob¬ 
server, had painted truly—complacently porcine, 
benevolently smug. 

The seniors and juniors sat in the nave, the 
sophomores on the right side of the transept, the 
freshmen on the left. Hugh gazed upward in awe 
at the dim recesses of the vaulted ceiling, at the 
ornately carved choir where gowned students were 
quietly seating themselves, at the colored light 
streaming through the beautiful windows, at the 
picture of the pork merchant. The chapel bells 
ceased tolling; rich, solemn tones swelled from the 
organ. 

President Culver in cap and gown, his purple 
30 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


3 i 

hood falling over his shoulders, entered followed 
by his faculty, also gowned and hooded. The 
students rose and remained standing until the presi¬ 
dent and faculty were seated. The organ sounded 
a final chord, and then the college chaplain rose and 
prayed—very badly. He implored the Lord to 
look kindly “on these young men who have come 
from near and far to drink from this great fount 
of learning, this well of wisdom.” 

The prayer over, the president addressed the 
students. He was a large, erect man with iron- 
gray hair and a rugged intelligent face. Although 
he was sixty years old, his body was vigorous and 
free from extra weight. He spoke slowly and im¬ 
pressively, choosing his words with care and enun¬ 
ciating them with great distinctness. His address 
was for the freshmen: he welcomed them to San¬ 
ford College, to its splendid traditions, its high 
ideals, its noble history. He spoke of the famous 
men it numbered among its sons, of the work they 
had done for America and the world, of the work 
he hoped future Sanford men, they, the freshmen, 
would some day do for America and the world. 
He mentioned briefly the boys from Sanford who 
had died in the World War “to make the world 
safe for democracy,” and he prayed that their sac¬ 
rifice had not been in vain. Finally, he spoke of 
the chapel service, which the students were required 
to attend. He hoped that they would find inspira- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


3 2 

tion in it, knowledge and strength. He assured 
them that the service would always be non¬ 
sectarian, that there would never be anything in it 
to offend any one of any race, creed, or religion. 
With a last exhortation to the freshmen to make 
the most of their great opportunities, he ended 
with the announcement that they would rise and 
sing the sixty-seventh hymn. 

Hugh was deeply impressed by the speech but 
disturbed by the students. From where he sat he 
got an excellent view of the juniors and seniors. 
The seniors, who sat in the front of the nave, 
seemed to be paying fairly good attention; but the 
juniors—many of them, at least—paid no attention 
at all. Some of them were munching apples, some 
doughnuts, and many of them were reading “The 
Sanford News,” the college’s daily paper. Some 
of the juniors talked during the president’s address, 
and once he noticed four of them doubled up as if 
overcome by laughter. To him the service was a 
beautiful and impressive occasion. He could not 
understand the conduct of the upper-classmen. It 
seemed, to put it mildly, irreverent. 

Every one, however, sang the doxology with 
great vigor, some of the boys lifting up a “whisky” 
tenor that made the chapel ring, and to which 
Hugh happily added his own clear tenor. The 
benediction was pronounced by the chaplain, the 
seniors marched out slowly in twos, while the other 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


33 


students and the faculty stood in their places; then 
the president, followed by the faculty, passed out 
of the great doors. When the back of the last fac¬ 
ulty gown had disappeared, the under-classmen 
broke for the door, pushing each other aside, swear¬ 
ing when a toe was stepped on, yelling to each 
other, some of them joyously chanting the doxol- 
ogy. Hugh was caught in the rush and carried 
along with the mob, feeling ashamed and dis¬ 
tressed; this was no way to leave a church. 

Once outside, however, he had no time to think 
of the chapel service; he had five minutes in which 
to get to his first class, and the building was across 
the campus, a good two minutes’ walk. He patted 
his cap to be sure that it was firmly on the back 
of his head, clutched his note-book, and ran as hard 
as he could go, the strolling upper-classmen, whom 
he passed at top speed, grinning after him in toler¬ 
ant amusement. 

Hugh was the first one in the class-room and 
wondered in a moment of panic if he was in the 
right place. He sat down dubiously and looked at 
his watch. Four minutes left. He would wait 
two, and then if nobody came he would—he 
gasped; he couldn’t imagine what he would do. 
How could he find the right class-room? Maybe 
his class did n’t come at this hour at all. Suppose 
he and Carl had made a mistake. If they had, his 
whole schedule was probably wrong. “Oh, golly,” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


34 

he thought, feeling pitifully weak, “won’t that be 
hell? What can I do?” 

At that moment a countrified-looking youth en¬ 
tered, looking as scared as Hugh felt. His face 
was pale, and his voice trembled as he asked tim¬ 
idly, “Do you know if this is Section Three of Math 
One?” 

Hugh was immediately strengthened. “I think 
so,” he replied. “Anyhow, let’s wait and find 
out.” 

The freshman sighed in huge relief, took out a 
not too clean handkerchief, and mopped his face. 
“Criminy!” he exclaimed as he wriggled down the 
aisle to a seat by Hugh, “I was sure worried. I 
thought I was in the wrong building, though I was 
sure that my adviser had told me positively that 
Math was in Matthew Six.” 

“I guess we ’re all right,” Hugh comforted him 
as two other freshmen, also looking dubious, en¬ 
tered. They were followed by four more, and then 
by a stampeding group, all of them pop-eyed, all of 
them in a rush. In the next minute five freshmen 
dashed in and then dashed out again, utterly be¬ 
wildered, obviously terrified, and not knowing 
where to go or what to do. “Is this Math One, 
Section Three?” every man demanded of the room 
as he entered; and every one yelled, “Yes,” or, “I 
think so.” 

Just as the bell rang at ten minutes after the 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


35 

hour, the instructor entered. It was Professor 
Kane. 

“This is Mathematics One, Section Three,” Kane 
announced in a dry voice. “If there is any one 
here who does not belong here, he will please 
leave.” Nobody moved; so he shuffled some cards 
in his hand and asked the men to answer to the roll- 
call. 

“Adams, J. H.” 

“Present, sir.” 

Kane looked up and frowned. “Say ‘here,’ ” 
he said severely. “This is not a grammar-school.” 

“Yes, sir,” stuttered Adams, his face first white 
then purple. “Here, sir.” 

“ ‘Here’ will do; there is no need of the ‘sir.’ 
Allsop, K. E.” 

“Here”—in a very faint voice. 

“Speak up!” 

“Here.” This time a little louder. 

And so it went, hardly a man escaping without 
some admonishment. Hugh’s throat went dry; his 
tongue literally stuck to the roof of his mouth: he 
was sure that he would n’t be able to say “Here” 
when it came his turn, and he could feel his heart 
pounding in dreadful anticipation. 

“Carver, H. M.” 

“Here 1 ” 

There! it was out! Or had he really said it? 
He looked at the professor in terror, but Kane was 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


36 

already calling, “Dana, R. T.” Hugh sank back 
in his chair; he was trembling. 

Kane announced the text-book, and when Hugh 
caught the word “trigonometry” he actually thrilled 
with joy. He had had trig in high school. 
Whoops! Would he hit Math I in the eye? 
He’d knock it for a goal. . . . Then conscience 
spoke. Ought n’t he to tell Kane that he had al¬ 
ready had trig? He guessed quite rightly that 
Kane had not understood his high-school creden¬ 
tials, which had given him credit for “advanced 
mathematics.” Kane had taken it for granted that 
that was advanced algebra. Hugh felt that he 
ought to explain the mistake, but fear of the arid, 
impersonal man restrained him. Kane had told 
him to take Math I; and Kane was law. 

Unlike most of Hugh’s instructors, Kane kept 
the class the full hour the first day, seating them 
in alphabetical order—he had to repeat the per¬ 
formance three times during the week as new men 
entered the class—lecturing them on the need of do¬ 
ing their problems carefully and accurately, and 
discoursing on the value of mathematics, trigonom¬ 
etry in particular, in the study of science and engi¬ 
neering. Hugh was not interested in science, en¬ 
gineering, or mathematics, but he listened carefully, 
trying hard to follow Kane’s cold discourse. At 
the end of the hour he told his neighbor as they left 
the room that he guessed that Professor Kane 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


37. 

knew an awful lot, and his neighbor agreed with 
him. 

Hugh’s other instructors proved less impressive 
than Kane; in fact, Mr. Ailing, the instructor in 
Latin, was altogether disconcerting. 

“Plautus,” he told the class, “wrote comedies, 
farces—not exercises in translation. He was also, 
my innocents, occasionally naughty—oh, really 
naughty. What’s worse, he used slang, common 
every-day slang—the kind of stuff that you and I 
talk. Now, I have an excellent vocabulary of 
slang, obscenity, and profanity; and you are going 
to hear most of it. Think of the opportunity. 
Don’t think that I mean just ‘damn’ and ‘hell.’ 
They are good for a laugh in a theater any day, 
but Plautus was not restrained by our modern con¬ 
ventions. You will confine yourselves, please, to 
English undefiled, but I shall speak the modern 
equivalent to a Roman gutter-pup’s language when¬ 
ever necessary. You will find this course very il¬ 
luminating—in some ways. And, who knows? you 
may learn something not only about Latin but about 
Rome.” 

Hugh thought Mr. Ailing was rather flippant 
and lacking in dignity. Professor Kane was more 
like a college teacher. Before the term was out 
he hated Kane with an intensity that astonished 
him, and he looked forward to his Latin classes 
with an eagerness of which he was almost ashamed* 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


38 

Plautus in the Ailing free and colloquial transla¬ 
tions was enormously funny. 

Professor Hartley, who gave the history lectures, 
talked in a bass monotone and never seemed to 
pause for breath. His words came in a slow 
steady stream that never rose nor fell nor paused— 
until the bell rang. The men in the back of the 
room slept. Hugh was seated near the front; so 
he drew pictures in his note-book. The English 
instructor talked about punctuation as if it were 
very unpleasant but almost religiously important; 
and what the various lecturers in general science 
talked about—ten men gave the course—Hugh 
never knew. In after years all that he could re¬ 
member about the course was that one man spoke 
broken English and that a professor of physics had 
made huge bulbs glow with marvelous colors. 

Hugh had one terrifying experience before he 
finally got settled to his work. It occurred the sec¬ 
ond day of classes. He was comfortably seated 
in what he thought was his English class—he had 
come in just as the bell rang—when the instructor 
announced that it was a class in French. What 
was he to do? What would the instructor do if he 
got up and left the room? What would happen if 
he didn’t report at his English class? What 
would happen to him for coming into his English 
class late? These questions staggered his mind. 
He was afraid to stay in the French class. Cau- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


39 

tiously he got up and began to tiptoe to the door. 

“Wrong room?” the instructor asked pleasantly. 

Hugh flushed. “Yes, sir.” He stopped dead 
still, not knowing what to do next. 

He was a typical rattled freshman, and the class, 
which was composed of sophomores, laughed. 
Hugh, angry and humiliated, started for the door, 
but the instructor held up a hand that silenced the 
class; then he motioned for Hugh to come to his 
desk. 

“What class are you looking for?” 

“English One, sir, Section Seven.” He held out 
his schedule card, reassured by the instructor’s 
kindly manner. 

The instructor looked at the card and then con¬ 
sulted a printed schedule. 

“Oh,” he said, “your adviser made a mistake. 
He got you into the wrong group list. You be¬ 
long in Sanders Six.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Hugh spoke so softly that 
the waiting class did not hear him, but the instruc¬ 
tor smiled at the intensity of his thanks. As he 
left the room, he knew that every one was looking 
at him; his legs felt as if they were made of wood. 
It was n’t until he had closed the door that his knee- 
joints worked naturally. But the worst was still 
ahead of him. He had to go to his English class 
in Sanders 6. He ran across the campus, his heart 
beating wildly, his hands desperately clenched. 


40 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


When he reached Sanders 6, he found three other 
freshmen grouped before the door. 

“Is this English One, Section Seven?” one asked 
tremulously. 

“I think so,” whispered the second. “Do you 
know?” he asked, turning to Hugh. 

“Yes; I am almost sure.” 

They stood there looking at each other, no one 
quite daring to enter Sanders 6, no one quite daring 
to leave. Suddenly the front door of the building 
slammed. A bareheaded youth rushed up the 
stairs. He was a repeater; that is, a man who had 
failed the course the preceding year and was taking 
it over again. He brushed by the scared freshmen, 
opened the door, and strode into Sanders 6, closing 
the door behind him. 

The freshmen looked at each other, and then the 
one nearest the door opened it. The four of them 
filed in silently. 

The class looked up. “Sit in the back of the 
room,” said the instructor. 

And that was all there was to that. In his 
senior year Hugh remembered the incident and 
wondered at his terror. He tried to remember 
why he had been so badly frightened. He 
could n’t; there did n’t seem to be any reason at all. 


CHAPTER VI 


A BOUT a week after the opening of col* 
lege, Hugh returned to Surrey Hall one 
night feeling unusually virtuous and 
happy. He had worked religiously at the library 
until it had closed at ten, and he had been in the 
mood to study. His lessons for the next day were 
all prepared, and prepared well. He had strolled 
across the moon-lit campus, buoyant and happy. 
Some one was playing the organ in the dark chapel; 
he paused to listen. Two students passed him, 
humming softly, 

“Sanford, Sanford, mother of men, 

Love us, guard us, hold us true . . .” 

The dormitories were dim masses broken by rec¬ 
tangles of soft yellow light. Somewhere a banjo 
twanged. Another student passed. 

“Hello, Carver,” he said pleasantly. “Nice 
night.” 

“Oh, hello, Jones. It sure is.” 

The simple greeting completed his happiness. 
He felt that he belonged, that Sanford, the “mother 
of men,” had taken him to her heart. The music 
41 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


42 

in the chapel swelled, lyric, passionate—up! up! 
almost a cry. The moonlight was golden between 
the heavy shadows of the elms. Tears came into 
the boy’s eyes; he was melancholy with joy. 

He climbed the stairs of Surrey slowly, reluctant 
to reach his room and Carl’s flippancy. He passed 
an open door and glanced at the men inside the 
room. 

“Hi, Hugh. Come in and bull a while.” 

“Not to-night, thanks.” He moved on down 
the hall, feeling a vague resentment; his mood had 
been broken, shattered. 

The door opposite his own room was slightly 
open. A freshman lived there, Herbert Morse, a 
queer chap with whom Carl and Hugh had suc¬ 
ceeded in scraping up only the slightest acquaint¬ 
ance. He was a big fellow, fully six feet, husky 
and quick. The football coach said that he had 
the makings of a great half-back, but he had al¬ 
ready been fired off the squad because of his irreg¬ 
ularity in reporting for practice. Except for what 
the boys called his stand-offishness—some of them 
said that he was too damned high-hat—he was ex¬ 
tremely attractive. He had red, almost copper- 
colored, hair, and an exquisite skin, as delicate as a 
child’s. His features were well carved, his nose 
slightly aquiline—a magnificent looking fellow, al¬ 
most imperious; or as Hugh once said to Carl, 
“Morse looks kinda noble.” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


43' 

As Hugh placed his hand on the door-knob of 
No 19, he heard something that sounded suspi¬ 
ciously like a sob from across the hall. He paused 
and listened. He was sure that he could hear 
some one crying. 

“Wonder what’s wrong,” he thought, instantly 
disturbed and sympathetic. 

He crossed the hall and tapped lightly on 
Morse’s door. There was no answer; nor was 
there any when he tapped a second time. For a 
moment he was abashed, and then he pushed open 
the door and entered Morse’s room. 

In the far corner Morse was sitting at his desk, 
his head buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking. 
He was crying fiercely, terribly; at times his whole 
body jerked in the violence of his sobbing. 

Hugh stood by the door embarrassed and rather 
frightened. Morse’s grief brought a lump to his 
throat. He had never seen any one, cry like that 
before. Something had to be done. But what 
could he do ? He had no right to intrude on 
Morse, but he could n’t let the poor fellow go on 
suffering like that. As he stood there hesitant, 
shaken, Morse buried his head deeper in his arms, 
moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after 
a series of sobs that seemed to tear themselves 
from him. That was too much for Hugh. He 
could n’t stand it. Some force outside of him sent 
him across the room to Morse. He put his 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


44 

hand on a quivering shoulder and said gently: 

“What is it, Morse? What’s the matter?” 

Morse ran his hand despairingly through his red 
hair, shook his head, and made no answer. 

“Come on, old man; buck up.” Hugh’s voice 
trembled; it was husky with sympathy. “Tell me 
about it. Maybe I can help.” 

Then Morse looked up, his face stained with 
tears, his eyes inflamed, almost desperate. He 
stared at Hugh wonderingly. For an instant he 
was angry at the intrusion, but his anger passed at 
once. He could not miss the tenderness and sym¬ 
pathy in Hugh’s face; and the boy’s hand was still 
pressing with friendly insistence on his shoulder. 
There was something so boyishly frank, so clean 
and honest about Hugh that his irritation melted 
into confidence; and he craved a confidant pas¬ 
sionately. 

“Shut the door,” he said dully, and reached into 
his trousers pocket for his handkerchief. He 
mopped his face and eyes vigorously while Hugh 
was closing the door, and then blew his nose as if 
he hated it. But the tears continued to come, and 
all during his talk with Hugh he had to pause oc¬ 
casionally to dry his eyes. 

Hugh stood awkwardly in the middle of the rug, 
not knowing whether to sit down or not. Morse 
was clutching his handkerchief in his hand and 
staring at the floor. Finally he spoke up. 























1 • . 




. 











1 ' v . . ■ . 

■- 















. ? 

• - . « 














. 





















THE PLASTIC AGE 


45 


“Sit down,” he said in a dead voice, “there. 1 ” 

Hugh sank into the chair Morse indicated and 
then gripped his hands together. He felt weak 
and frightened, and absolutely unable to say any¬ 
thing. But Morse saved him the trouble. 

“I suppose you think I am an awful baby,” he 
began, his voice thick with tears, “but I just can’t 
help it. I—I just can’t help it. I don’t want to 
cry, but I do.” And then he added defiantly, “Go 
ahead and think I’m a baby if you want to.” 

“I don’t think you ’re a baby,” Hugh said softly; 
“I’m just sorry; that’s all. ... I hope I can 
help.” He smiled shyly, hopefully. 

His smile conquered Morse. “You ’re a good 
kid, Carver,” he cried impulsively. “A darn good 
kid. I like you, and I’m going to tell you all about 
it. And I—I—I won’t care if you laugh.” 

“I won’t laugh,” Hugh promised, relieved to 
think that there was a possibility of laughing. The 
trouble could n’t be so awfully bad. 

Morse blew his nose, stuck his handkerchief into 
his pocket, pulled it out again and dabbed his eyes, 
returned it to his pocket, and suddenly stood up. 

“I’m homesick!” he blurted out. “I’m—I’m 
homesick, damned homesick. I’ve been homesick 
ever since I arrived. I—I just can’t stand it. 

For an instant Hugh did have a wild desire to 
laugh. Part of the desire was caused by nervous 
relief, but part of it was caused by what seemed to 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


46 

him the absurdity of the situation: a big fellow like 
Morse blubbering, bawling for home and mother! 

“You can’t know,” Morse went on, “how awful 
it is—awful! I want to cry all the time. I can’t 
listen in classes. A prof asked me a question to¬ 
day, and I did n’t know what he had been talking 
about. He asked me what he had said. I had to 
say I did n’t know. The whole class laughed, and 
the prof asked me why I had come to college. 
God! I nearly died.” 

Hugh’s sympathy was all captured again. He 
knew that he would die if he ever made a fool 
of himself in the class-room. 

“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “What did you say?” 

“Nothing. I could n’t think of anything. For 
a minute I thought that my head was going to bust. 
He quit razzing me and I tried to pay attention, 
but I couldn’t; all I could do was think of home. 
Lord! I wish I was there!” He mopped at his 
eyes and paced up and down the room nervously. 

“Oh, you ’ll get over that,” Hugh said comfort¬ 
ingly. “Pretty soon you ’ll get to know lots of 
fellows, and then you won’t mind about home.” 

“That’s what I keep telling myself, but it don’t 
work. I can’t eat or sleep. I can’t study. I 
can’t do anything. I tell you I’ve got to go 
home. I’ve got to!” This last with desperate 
emphasis. 

Hugh smiled. “You ’re all wrong,” he asserted 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


47 

positively. “You’re just lonely; that’s all. I 
bet that you ’ll be crazy about college in a month— 
same as the rest of us. When you feel blue, come 
in and see Peters and me. We ’ll make you grin; 
Peters will, anyway. You can’t be blue around 
him.” 

Morse sat down. “You don’t understand. 
I’m not lonely. It is n’t that. I could talk to 
fellows all day long if I wanted to. I don’t want 
to talk to ’em. I can’t. There’s just one person 
that I want to talk to, and that’s my mother.” 
He shot the word “mother” out defiantly and 
glared at Hugh, silently daring him to laugh, which 
Hugh had sense enough not to do, although he 
wanted to strongly. The great big baby, wanting 
his mother! Why, he wanted his mother, too, but 
he did n’t cry about it. 

“That’s all right,” he said reassuringly; “you ’ll 
see her Christmas vacation, and that is n’t very long 
off.” 

“I want to see her now!” Morse jumped to his 
feet and raised his clenched hands above his head. 
“Now!” he roared. “Now! I’ve got to. I’m 
going home on the midnight.” He whirled about 
to his desk and began to pull open the drawers, pil¬ 
ing their contents on the top. 

“Here!” Hugh rushed to him and clutched his 
arms. “Don’t do that.” Morse struggled, angry 
at the restraining hands, ready to strike them off. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


48 

Hugh had a flash of inspiration. “Think how dis¬ 
appointed your mother will be,” he cried, hanging 
on to Morse’s arms; “think of her.” 

Morse ceased struggling. “She will be disap¬ 
pointed,” he admitted miserably. “What can I 
do?” There was a world of despair in his ques¬ 
tion. 

Hugh pushed him into the desk-chair and seated 
himself on the edge of the desk. “I ’ll tell you,” 
he said. He talked for half an hour, cheering 
Morse, assuring him that his homesickness would 
pass away, offering to study with him. At first 
Morse paid little attention, but finally he quit snif¬ 
fing and looked up, real interest in his face. When 
Hugh got a weak smile out of him, he felt that his 
work had been done. He jumped off the desk, 
leaned over to slap Morse on the back, and told 
him that he was a good egg but a damn fool. 

Morse grinned. “You ’re a good egg yourself,” 
he said gratefully. “You’ve saved my life.” 

Hugh was pleased and blushed. “You ’re full 
of bull. . . . Remember, we do Latin at ten to¬ 
morrow.” He opened the door. “Good night.” 

“Good night.” And Hugh heard as he closed 
the door, “Thanks a lot.” 

When he opened his own door, he found Carl 
sitting before a blazing log fire. There was no 
other light in the room. Carl had written his 
nightly letter to the “old lady,” and he was a little 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


49 

homesick himself—softened into a tender and pen¬ 
sive mood. He did not move as Hugh sat down 
in a big chair on the other side of the hearth and 
said softly, “Thinking ?” 

“Un-huh. Where you been?” 

“Across the hall in Morse’s room.” Then as 
Carl looked up in surprise, he told him of his expe¬ 
rience with their red-headed neighbor. “He ’ll get 
over it,” he concluded confidently. “He’s just 
been lonely.” 

Carl puffed contemplatively at his pipe for a few 
minutes before replying. Hugh waited, watching 
the slender boy stretched out in a big chair before 
the fire, his ankles crossed, his face gentle and boy¬ 
ish in the ruddy, flickering light. The shadows, 
heavy and wavering, played magic with the room; 
it was vast, mysterious. 

“No,” said Carl, pausing again to puff his pipe; 
“no, he won’t get over it. He ’ll go home.” 

“Aw, shucks. A big guy like that is n’t going to 
stay a baby all his life.” Hugh was frankly deri¬ 
sive. “Soon as he gets to know a lot of fellows, 
he ’ll forget home and mother.” 

Carl smiled vaguely, his eyes dreamy as he gazed 
into the hypnotizing flames. The mask of sophis¬ 
tication had slipped off his face; he was pleasantly 
in the control of a gentle mood, a mood that erased 
the last vestige of protective coloring. 

He shook his head slowly. “You don’t under- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


50 

stand, Hugh. Morse is sick, sick —not lonesome. 
He ’s got" something worse than flu. Nobody can 
stand what he ’s got.” 

Hugh looked at him in bewilderment. This was 
a new Carl, some one he had n’t met before. Gone 
was the slang flippancy, the hard roughness. Even 
his voice was softened. 

Carl knocked his pipe empty on the knob of an 
andiron, sank deeper into his chair, and began to 
speak slowly. 

“I think I’m going to tell you a thing or two 
about myself. We ’ve got to room together, and 
I—well, I like you. You’re a good egg, but you 
don’t get me at all. I guess you’ve never run up 
against anybody like me before.” He paused. 
Hugh said nothing, afraid to break into Carl’s 
mood. He was intensely curious. He leaned for¬ 
ward and watched Carl, who was staring dreamily 
into the fire. 

“I told you once, I think,” he continued, “that 
my old man had left us a lot of jack. That’s true. 
We ’re rich, awfully rich. I have my own account 
and can spend as much as I like. The sky’s the 
limit. What I did n’t tell you is that we ’re nou¬ 
veau riche —no class at all. My old man made all 
his money the first year of the war- He was a 
commission-merchant, a middleman. Money just 
rolled in, I guess. He bought stocks with it, and 
they boomed; and he had sense enough to sell them 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


5* 

when they were at the top. Six years ago we 
did n’t have hardly anything. Now we ’re rich, v 

“My old man was a good scout, but he didn’t 
have much education; neither has the old lady. 
Both of ’em went through grammar-school; that’s 
all. 

“Well, they knew they weren’t real folks, not 
regular people, and they wanted me to be. See? 
That’s why they sent me to Kane. Well, Kane 
is n’t strong for nouveau riche kids, not by a damn 
sight. At first old Simmonds—he’s the head mas¬ 
ter—would n’t take me, said that he did n’t have 
room; but my old man begged and begged, so finally 
Simmonds said all right.” 

Again he paused, and Hugh waited. Carl was 
speaking so softly that he had trouble in hearing 
him, but somehow he did n’t dare to ask him to 
speak louder. 

“I sha’n’t forget the day,” Carl went on, “that 
the old man left me at Kane. I was scared, and 
I didn’t want to stay. But he made me; he said 
that Kane would make a gentleman out of me. I 
was homesick, homesick as hell. I know how 
Morse feels. I tried to run away three times, but 
they caught me and brought me back. Cry? I 
bawled all the time when I was alone. I could n’t 
sleep for weeks; I just laid in bed and bawled. 
God! it was awful. The worst of it was the meals. 
I did n’t know how to eat right, you see, and the 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


52 

master who sat at the table with our form would 
correct me. I used to want to die, and sometimes 
I would say that I was sick and did n’t want any 
food so that I would n’t have to go to meals. The 
fellows razzed the life out of me; some of ’em 
called me Paddy. The reason I came here to San¬ 
ford was that no Kane fellows come here. They 
go mostly to Williams, but some of ’em go to Yale 
or Princeton. 

“Well, I had four years of that, and I was home¬ 
sick the whole four years. Oh, I don’t mean that 
they kept after me all the time—that was just the 
first few months—but they never really accepted 
me. I never felt at home. Even when I was with 
a bunch of them, I felt lonesome. . . . And they 
never made a gentleman out of me, though my old 
lady thinks they did.” 

“You ’re crazy,” Hugh interrupted indignantly. 
“You ’re as much a gentleman as anybody in 
college.” 

Carl smiled and shook his head. “No, you don’t 
understand. You ’re a gentleman, but I’m not. 
Oh, I know all the tricks, the parlor stunts. Four 
years at Kane taught me those, but they ’re just 
tricks to me. I don*t know just how to explain it— 
but I know that you ’re a gentleman and I’m not.” 

“You’re just plain bug-house. You make me 
feel like a fish. WEy, I’m just from a country 
high school. I ’m not in your class.” Hugh sat 


THE PLASTIC AGE 53 

up and leaned eagerly toward Carl, gesticulating 
excitedly. 

“As if that made any difference,” Carl replied, 
his voice sharp with scorn. “You see, I’m a bad 
egg. I drink and gamble and pet. I have n’t gone 
the limit yet on—on account of my old lady—but I 
will.” 

Hugh was relieved. He had wondered more 
than once during the past week “just how far Carl 
had gone.” Several times Carl had suggested by 
sly innuendos that there was n’t anything that he 
had n’t done, and Hugh had felt a slight disap¬ 
proval—and considerable envy. His own stand¬ 
ards were very high, very strict, but he was ashamed 
to reveal them. 

“I’ve never gone the limit either,” he confessed 
shyly. 

Carl threw back his head and laughed. “You 
poor fish; don’t you suppose I know that?” he 
exclaimed. 

“How did you know?” Hugh demanded indig¬ 
nantly. “I might’ve. Why, I was out with a girl 
just before I left home and—” 

“You kissed her,” Carl concluded for him. “I 
don’t know how I knew, but I did. You ’re just 
kinda pure; that’s all. I’m not pure at all; I’m 
just a little afraid—and I keep thinkin’ of my old 
lady. I’ve started to several times, but I’ve al¬ 
ways thought of her and quit.” 


54 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


He sat silent for a minute or two and then con« 
tinued more gently. “My old lady never came to 
Kane. She never will come here, either. She 
wants to give me a real chance. See? She knows 
she is n’t a lady—but—but, oh, God, Hugh, she’s 
white, white as hell. I guess I think more of her 
than all the rest of the world put together. That’s 
why I write to her every night. She writes to me 
every day, too. The letters have mistakes in them, 
but—but they keep me straight. That is, they 
have so far. I know, though, that some night I ’ll 
be out with a bag and get too much liquor in me—> 
and then good-by, virginity.” 

“You ’re crazy, Carl. You know you won’t.” 

Carl rose from the chair and stretched hugely. 

“You ’re a good egg, Hugh,” he said in the midst 
of a yawn, “but you ’re a damn fool.” 

Hugh started. That was just what he had said 
to Morse. 

He never caught Carl in a confidential mood 
again. The next morning he was his old flippant 
self, swearing because he had to study his Latin, 
which was n’t “of any damned use to anybody.” 

In the following weeks Hugh religiously clung to 
Morse, helped him with his work, went to the 
movies with him, inveigled him into going on sev¬ 
eral long walks. Morse was more cheerful and 
almost pathetically grateful. One day, however, 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


55 

Hugh found an unstamped letter on the floor. He 
opened it wonderingly. 

Dear Hugh [he read]. You’ve been awfully good 
to me but I can’t stand it. I’m going home to-day. Give 
my regards to Peters. Thanks for all you’ve done for 


me. 


Bert Morse. 


CHAPTER VII 


F OR a moment after reading Morse’s letter 
Hugh was genuinely sorry, but almost im¬ 
mediately he felt irritated and hurt. 

He handed the letter to Carl, who entered just 
as he finished reading it, and exploded: “The 
simp! And after I wasted so much time on him.” 

Carl read the letter. “I told you so.” He 
smiled impishly. “You were the wise boy; you 
knew that he would get over it.” 

Hugh should really have felt grateful to Morse. 
It was only a feeling of responsibility for him that 
had made Hugh prepare his own lessons. Day 
after day he had studied with Morse in order to 
cheer him up; and that was all the studying he had 
done. Latin and history had little opportunity to 
claim his interest in competition with the excitement 
around him. 

Crossing the campus for the first few weeks of 
college was an adventure for every freshman. He 
did not know when he would be seized by a howling 
group of sophomores and forced to make an ass of 
himself for their amusement. Sometimes he was 
required to do “esthetic dancing,” sometimes to 
56 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


57 

sing, or, what was more common, to make a speech. 
And no matter how hard he tried, the sophomores 
were never pleased. If he danced, they laughed at 
him, guyed him unmercifully, called attention to his 
legs, his awkwardness, urged him to go faster, in¬ 
sisted that he get some “pash” into it. If he sang, 
and the frightened freshman usually sang off key, 
they interrupted him after a few notes, told him 
to sing something else, interrupted that, and told 
him “for God’s sake” to dance. The speech¬ 
making, however, provided the most fun, especially 
if the freshman was cleverer than his captors. 
Then there was a battle of wits, and if the fresh¬ 
man too successfully defeated his opponents, he was 
dropped into a watering-trough that had stood on 
the campus for more than a century. Of justice 
there was none, but of sport there was a great 
plenty. The worst scared of the freshmen really 
enjoyed the experience. By a strange sort of in¬ 
verted logic, he felt that he was something of a 
hero; at least, for a brief time he had occupied the 
public eye. He had been initiated; he was a San¬ 
ford man. 

One freshman, however, found those two weeks 
harrowing. That was Merton Billings, the fat 
man of the class. Day after day he was captured 
by the sophomores and commanded to dance. He 
was an earnest youth and entirely without a sense of 
humor. Dancing to him was not only hard work 


58 THE PLASTIC AGE 

but downright wicked. He was a member of the 
Epworth League, and he took his membership se¬ 
riously. Even David, he remembered, had “got in 
wrong” because he danced; and he had no desire 
to emulate David. Within two days the sopho¬ 
mores discovered his religious ardor, his horror of 
drinking, smoking, and dancing. So they made him 
dance while they howled with glee at his bobbing 
stomach; his short, staggering legs; his red jowls, 
jigging and jouncing; his pale blue eyes, protrud¬ 
ing excitedly from their sockets; his lips pressed 
tight together, periodically popping open for breath. 
He was very funny, very angry, and very much 
ashamed. Every night he prayed that he might be 
forgiven his sin. A month later when the inten¬ 
sity of his hatred had subsided somewhat, he re¬ 
membered to his horror that he had not prayed that 
his tormentors be forgiven their even greater sin. 
He rectified the error without delay, not neglecting 
to ask that the error be forgiven, too. 

Hugh was forced to sing, to dance, and to make 
a speech, but he escaped the watering-trough. He 
thought the fellows were darned nice to let him 
off, and they thought that he was too darned nice 
to be ducked. Although Hugh didn’t suspect it, 
he was winning immediate popularity. His shy, 
friendly smile, his natural modesty, and his boyish 
enthusiasm were making a host of friends for him. 

He liked the “initiations” on the campus, but he 


THE PLASTIC AGE 59 

did not like some of them in the dormitories. He 
did n’t mind being pulled out of bed and shoved un¬ 
der a cold shower. He took a cold shower every 
morning, and if the sophomores wanted to give 
him another one at night—all right, he was willing. 
He had to confess that “Eliza Crossing the Ice” 
had been enormous fun. The freshmen were com¬ 
manded to appear in the common room in their 
oldest clothes. Then all of them, the smallest lad 
excepted, got down on their hands and knees, form¬ 
ing a circle. The smallest lad, “Eliza,” was given 
a big bucket full of water. He jumped upon the 
back of the man nearest to him and ran wildly 
around the circle, leaping from back to back, the 
bucket swinging crazily, the water splashing in every 
direction and over everybody. 

Hugh liked such “stunts,” and he liked putting 
on a show with three other freshmen for the amuse¬ 
ment of their peers, but he did object to the vulgar¬ 
ity and cruelty of much that was done. 

The first order the sophomores often gave was, 
“Strip, freshman.” Just why the freshmen had to 
be naked before they performed, Hugh did not 
know, but there was something phallic about the 
proceedings that disgusted him. Like every ath¬ 
lete, he thought nothing of nudity, but he soon dis¬ 
covered that some of the freshmen were intensely 
conscious of it. True, a few months in the gym¬ 
nasium cured them of that consciousness, but at first 


6 o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

many of them were eternally wrapping towels about 
themselves in the gymnasium, and they took a 
shower as if it were an act of public shame. The 
sophomores recognized the timidity that some of 
the freshmen had in revealing their bodies, and 
they made full capital of it. The shyer the fresh¬ 
man, the more pointed their remarks, the more in¬ 
geniously nasty their tricks. 

“I don’t mind the razzing myself,” Hugh told 
Carl after one particularly strenuous evening, “but 
I don’t like the things they said to poor little Wil¬ 
kins. And when they stripped ’em and made Wil¬ 
kins read that dirty story to Culver, I wanted to 
%ht.” 

“It was kinda rotten,” Carl agreed, “but it was 
funny.” 

“It was n’t funny at all,” Hugh said angrily. 

Carl looked at him in surprise. It was the first 
time that he had seen him aroused. 

“It wasn’t funny at all,” Hugh repeated; “it was 
just filthy. I’d ’a’ just about died if I’d ’a’ been 
in Wilkins’s place. The poor kid! They’re too 
damn dirty, these sophomores. I did n’t think that 
college men could be so dirty. Why, not even the| 
bums at home would think of such things. And] 
I’m telling you right now that there are three of 
those guys that I’m layin’ for. Just wait till the 
class rush. I’m going to get Adams, and then I’m 
going to get Cooper—yes, I’m going to get him 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


61 

even if he is bigger ’n me—and I’m going to get 
Dodge. I did n’t say anything when they made me 
wash my face in the toilet bowl, but, by God! I’m 
going to get ’em for it.” 

Three weeks later he made good this threat. He 
was a clever boxer, and he succeeded in separating 
each of the malefactors from the fighting mob. 
He would have been completely nonplussed if he 
could have heard Adams and Dodge talking in their 
room after the rush. 

“Who gave you the black eye?” Adams asked 
Dodge. 

“That freshman Carver,” he replied, touching 
the eye gingerly. “Who gave you that welt on 
the chin?” 

“Carver! And, say, he beat Hi Cooper to a 
pulp. He’s a mess.” 

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. 

“Lord,” said Dodge, “I’m going to pick my 
freshmen next time. Who’d take a kid with a 
smile like his to be a scrapper? He’s got the nic¬ 
est smile in college. Why, he looks meek as a 
lamb.” 

“You never can tell,” remarked Adams, rubbing 
his chin ruefully. 

Dodge was examining his eye in the mirror. 
“No, you never can tell. . . . Damn it, I’m going 
to have to get a beefsteak or something for this 
lamp of mine.” 


62 THE plastic age 

“Say, he ought to be a good man for the frater¬ 
nity,” Adams said suddenly. 

“Who?” Dodge’s eye was absorbing his entire 
attention. 

“Carver, of course. He ought to make a damn 
good man.” 

“Yeah—you bet. We’ve got to rush him sure.” 



CHAPTER VIII 


T HE dormitory initiations had more than 
angered Hugh; they had completely upset 
his mental equilibrium: his every ideal of 
college swayed and wabbled. He was n’t a prig, 
but he had come to Sanford with very definite ideas 
about the place, and those ideas were already 
groggy from the unmerciful pounding they were 
receiving. 

His father was responsible for his illusions, if 
one may call them illusions. Mr. Carver was a 
shy, sensitive man well along in his fifties, with a 
wife twelve years his junior. He pretended to cul¬ 
tivate his small farm in Merrytown, but as a matter 
of fact he lived off of a comfortable income left him 
by his very capable father. He spent most of his 
time reading the eighteenth-century essayists, John 
Donne’s poetry, the “Atlantic Monthly,” the “Bos¬ 
ton Transcript,” and playing Mozart on his violin. 
He did not understand his wife and was thoroughly 
afraid of his son; Hugh had an animal vigor that 
at times almost terrified him. 

At his wife’s insistence he had a talk with Hugh 
the night before the boy left for college. Hugh 
63 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


6 4 

had Wanted to run when he met his father in the 
library after dinner for that talk. He loved the 
gentle, gray-haired man with the fine, delicate fea¬ 
tures and soft voice. He had often wished that he 
knew his father. Mr. Carver was equally eager 
to know Hugh, but he had no idea of how to go 
about getting acquainted with his son. 

They sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, and 
Mr. Carver gazed thoughtfully at the boy. Why 
had n’t Betty had this talk with Hugh? She knew 
him so much better than he did; they were more 
like brother and sister than mother and son. Why, 
Hugh called her Betty half the time, and she seemed 
to understand him perfectly. 

Hugh waited silently. Mr. Carver ran a thin 
hand through his hair and then sharply desisted; 
he must n’t let the boy know that he was nervous. 
Then he settled his horn-rimmed pince-nez more 
firmly on his nose and felt in his waistcoat for a 
cigar. Why didn’t Hugh say something? He 
snipped the end of the cigar with a silver knife. 
Slowly he lighted the cigar, inhaled once or twice, 
coughed mildly, and finally found his voice. 

“Well, Hugh,” he said in his gentle way. 

“Well, Dad.” Hugh grinned sheepishly. Then 
they both started; Hugh had never called his father 
Dad before. He thought of him that way always, 
but he could never bring himself to dare anything 


THE PLASTIC AGE 65 

but the more formal Father. In his embarrassment 
he had forgotten himself. 

‘‘I—I—I’m sorry, sir,” he stuttered, flushing 
painfully. 

Mr. Carver laughed to hide his own embarrass¬ 
ment. “That’s all right, Hugh.” His smile was 
very kindly. “Let it be Dad. I think I like it 
better.” 

“That’s fine!” Hugh exclaimed. 

The tension was broken, and Mr. Carver began 
to give the dreaded talk. 

“I hardly know what to say to you, Hugh,” he 
began, “on the eve of your going away to college. 
There is so much that you ought to know, and I 
have no idea of how much you know already.” 

Hugh thought of all the smutty stories he had 
heard—and told. Instinctively he knew that his 
father referred to what a local doctor called “the 
facts of life.” 

He hung his head and said gruffly, “I guess I 
know a good deal—Dad.” 

“That’s splendid!” Mr. Carver felt the full 
weight of a father’s responsibilities lifted from his 
shoulders. “I believe Dr. Hanson gave you a talk 
at school about—er, sex, didn’t he?” 

“Yes, sir.” Hugh was picking out the design 
in the rug with the toe of his shoe and at the same 
time unconsciously pinching his leg. He pinched so 


66 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

hard that he afterward found a black and blue spot, 
but he never knew how it got there. 

“Excellent thing, excellent thing, these talks by 
medical men.” He was beginning to feel at ease. 
“Excellent thing. I am glad that you are so well 
informed; you are old enough.” 

Hugh was n’t well informed; he was pathetically 
ignorant. Most of what he knew had come from 
the smutty stories, and he often did not understand 
the stories that he laughed at most heartily. He 
was consumed with curiosity. 

“If there is anything you want to know, don’t 
hesitate to ask,” his father continued. He had a 
moment of panic lest Hugh would ask something, 
but the boy merely shook his head—and pinched his 
leg. 

Mr. Carver puffed his cigar in great relief. 
“Well,” he continued, “I don’t want to give you 
much advice, but your mother feels that I ought to 
tell you a little more about college before you leave. 
As I have told you before, Sanford is a splendid 
place, a—er, a splendid place. Fine old traditions 
and all that sort of thing. Splendid place. You 
will find a wonderful faculty, wonderful. Most of 
the professors I had are gone, but I am sure that 
the new ones are quite as good. Your opportuni¬ 
ties will be enormous, and I am sure that you will 
take advantage of them. We have been very proud 
of your high school record, your mother and I, and 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


67 

we know that you will do quite as well in college. 
By the way, I hope you ’ll take a course in the 
eighteenth-century essayists; you will find them very 
stimulating—Addison especially. 

“I—er, your mother feels that I ought to say 
something about the dissipations of college. I— 
I’m sure that I don’t know what to say. I suppose 
that there are young men in college who dissipate— 
I remember that I knew one or two—but certainly 
most of them are gentlemen. Crude men—vulga¬ 
rians do not commonly go to college. Vulgarity 
has no place in college. You may, I presume, meet 
some men not altogether admirable, but it will not 
be necessary for you to know them. Now, as to 
the fraternity . . .” 

Hugh forgot to pinch his leg and looked up with 
avid interest in his face. The Nu Deltas! 

Mr. Carver leaned forward to stir the fire with 
a brass poker before he continued. Then he set¬ 
tled back in his chair and smoked comfortably. 
He was completely at ease now. The worst was 
over. 

“I have written to the Nu Deltas about you and 
told them that I hoped that they would find you 
acceptable, as I am sure they will. As a legacy, 
you will be among the first considered.” For an 
hour more he talked about the fraternity, Hugh, his 
embarrassment swallowed by his interest, eagerly 
asking questions. His father’s admiration for the 


U THE PLASTIC AGE 

fraternity was second only to his admiration for the 
college, and before the evening was over he had 
filled Hugh with an idolatry for both. 

He left his father that night feeling closer to him 
than he ever had before. He was going to be a 
college man like his father—perhaps a Nu Delta, 
too. He wished that they had got chummy before. 
When he went to bed, he lay awake dreaming, 
thinking sometimes of Helen Simpson and of how 
he had kissed her that afternoon, but more often of 
Sanford and Nu Delta. He was so deeply grateful 
to his father for talking to him frankly and telling 
him everything about college. He was darned 
lucky to have a father who was a college grad and 
could put him wise. It was pretty tough on the 
fellows whose fathers had never been to college. 
Poor fellows, they did n’t know the ropes the way 
he did. . . . 

He finally fell off to sleep, picturing himself in 
the doorway of the Nu Delta house welcoming his 
father to a reunion. 

That talk was returning to Hugh repeatedly- 
He wondered if Sanford had changed since his 
father’s day or if his father had just forgotten what 
college was like. Everything seemed so different 
from what he had been told to expect. Perhaps 
he was just soft and some of the fellows were n’t 
as crude as he thought they were. 


CHAPTER IX 


H UGH was by no means continuously de¬ 
pressed; as a matter of fact, most of the 
time he was agog with delight, especially 
over the rallies that were occurring with increasing 
frequency as the football season progressed. Some¬ 
times the rallies were carefully prepared ceremonies 
held in the gymnasium; sometimes they were en¬ 
tirely spontaneous. 

A group of men would rush out of a dormitory 
or fraternity house yelling, “Peerade, peerade!” 
Instantly every one within hearing would drop his 
books—or his cards—and rush to the yelling group, 
which would line up in fours and begin circling the 
campus, the line ever getting longer as more men 
came running out of the dormitories and fraternity 
houses. On, on they would go, arm in arm, danc¬ 
ing, singing Sanford songs, past every dormitory on 
the campus, past every fraternity house—pausing 
occasionally to give a cheer, always, however, keep¬ 
ing one goal in mind, the fraternity house where 
the team lived during the football season. Then 
when the cheer-leaders and the team were heading 
the procession, the mob would make for the foot- 
69 




70 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


ball field, with the cry of “Wood, freshmen, wood!” 
ringing down the line. 

Hugh was always one of the first freshmen to 
break from the line in his eagerness to get wood. 
In an incredibly short time he and his classmates 
had found a large quantity of old lumber, empty 
boxes, rotten planks, and not very rotten gates. 
When a light was applied to the clumsy pile of 
wood, the flames leaped up quickly—some one al¬ 
ways seemed to have a supply of kerosene ready— 
and revealed the excited upper-classmen sitting on 
the bleachers. 

“Dance, freshmen, dance!” 

Then the freshmen danced around the fire, hold¬ 
ing hands and spreading into an ever widening cir¬ 
cle as the fire crackled and the flames leaped up¬ 
ward. Slowly, almost impressively, the upper¬ 
classmen chanted: 

“Round the fire, the freshmen go, 

Freshmen go, 

Freshmen go; 

Round the fire the freshmen go 
To cheer Sanford.” 

The song had a dozen stanzas, only the last line 
of each being different. The freshmen danced un¬ 
til the last verse was sung, which ended with the 
Sanford cheer: 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


7 i 


“Closer now the freshmen go, 

Freshmen go, 

Freshmen go; 

Closer now the freshmen go 

To cheer— 

SANFORD! 

Sanford! Rah, rah! 

Sanford! Sanford! 

San—San—San— 

San—ford, San—ford—San—FORD!” 

While the upper-classmen were singing the last 
stanza the freshmen slowly closed in on the dying 
fire. At the first word of the cheer, they stopped, 
turned toward the grand stand, and joined the 
cheering. That over, they broke and ran for the 
bleachers, scrambling up the wooden stands, shov¬ 
ing each other out of the way, laughing and 
shouting. 

The football captain usually made a short and 
very awkward speech, which was madly applauded; 
perhaps the coach said a few words; two or three 
cheers were given; and finally every one rose, took 
off his hat if he wore one—nearly every one but 
the freshmen went bareheaded—and sang the col¬ 
lege hymn, simply and religiously. Then the crowd 
broke, straggling in groups across the campus, chat¬ 
ting, singing, shouting to each other. Suddenly 
lights began to flash in the dormitory windows. In 


72 THE PLASTIC AGE 

less than an hour after the first cry of “Peerade!” 
the men were back in their rooms, once more study¬ 
ing, talking, or playing cards. 

It was the smoker rallies, though, that Hugh 
found the most thrilling, especially the last one be¬ 
fore the final game of the season, the “big game” 
with Raleigh College. There were 1123 students 
in Sanford, and more than 1000 were at the rally. 
A rough platform had been built at one end of the 
gymnasium. On one side of it sat the band, on the 
other side the Glee Club—and before it the mass of 
students, smoking cigarettes, corn-cob pipes, and, 
occasionally, a cigar. The “smokes” had been fur¬ 
nished free by a local tobacconist; so everybody 
smoked violently and too much. In half an hour it 
was almost impossible to see the ceiling through the 
dull blue haze, and the men in the rear of the gym¬ 
nasium saw the speakers on the platform dimly 
through a wavering mist. 

The band played various Sanford songs, and 
everybody sang. Occasionally Wayne Gifford, the 
cheer-leader, leaped upon the platform, raised a 
megaphone to his mouth, and shouted, “A regular 
cheer for Sanford—a regular cheer for Sanford.” 
Then he lifted his arms above his head, flinging the 
megaphone aside with the same motion, and waited 
tense and rigid until the students were on their feet. 
Suddenly he turned into a mad dervish, twisting, 
bending, gesticulating, leaping, running back and 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


73 


forth across the platform, shouting, and finally 
throwing his hands above his head and springing 
high into the air at the concluding “San—FORD!” 

The Glee Club sang to mad applause; a tenor 
twanged a ukulele and moaned various blues; a pop¬ 
ular professor told stories, some of them funny, 
most of them slightly off color; a former cheer¬ 
leader told of the triumphs of former Sanford 
teams—and the atmosphere grew denser and 
denser, bluer and bluer, as the smoke wreathed up¬ 
ward. The thousand boys leaned intently forward, 
occasionally jumping to their feet to shout and 
cheer, and then sinking back into their chairs, tense 
and excited. As each speaker mounted the plat¬ 
form they shouted: “Off with your coat! Off with 
your coat!” And the speakers, even the professor, 
had to shed their coats before they were permitted 
to say a word. 

When the team entered, bedlam broke loose. 
Every student stood on his chair, waved his arms, 
slapped his neighbor on the back or hugged him 
wildly, threw his hat in the air, if he had one—and, 
so great was his training, keeping an eye on the 
cheer-leader, who was on the platform going 
through a series of indescribable contortions. Sud¬ 
denly he straightened up, held his hands above his 
head again, and shouted through his megaphone: 
“A regular cheer for the team—a regular cheer 
for the team. Make it big—BIG! Ready—!” 


74 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Away whirled the megaphone, and he went through 
exactly the same performance that he had used be¬ 
fore in conducting the regular cheer. Gifford 
looked like an inspired madman, but he knew ex¬ 
actly what he was doing. The students cheered 
lustily, so lustily that some of them were hoarse the 
next day. They continued to yell after the cheer 
was completed, ceasing only when Gifford signaled 
for silence. 

Then there were speeches by each member of the 
team, all enthusiastically applauded, and finally the 
speech of the evening, that of the coach, Jack Price. 
He was a big, compactly built man with regular 
features, heavy blond hair, and pale, cold blue eyes. 
He threw off his coat with a belligerent gesture, 
stuck his hands into his trousers pockets, and waited 
rigidly until the cheering had subsided. Then he 
began: 

“Go ahead and yell. It’s easy as hell to cheer 
here in the gym; but what are you going to do Sat¬ 
urday afternoon ?” 

His voice was sharp with sarcasm, and to the; 
shouts of “Yell! Fight!” that came from all over 
the gymnasium, he answered, “Yeah, maybe—| 
maybe.” 

He shifted his position, stepping toward the front 
of the platform, thrusting his hands deeper into his 
pockets. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


75! 

“I ’ve seen a lot of football games, and I ’ve seen 
lots of rooters, but this is the goddamndest gang of 
yellow-bellied quitters that I’ve ever seen. What 
happened last Saturday when we were behind? 
I’m asking you; what happened ? You quit! Quit 
like a bunch of whipped curs. God! you ’re yellow, 
yellow as hell. But the team went on fighting— 
and it won, won in spite of you, won for a bunch 
of yellow pups. And why? Because the team’s 
got guts. And when it was all over, you cheered 
and howled and serpentined and felt big as helL 
Lord Almighty! you acted as if you’d done 
something.” 

His right hand came out of his pocket with a 
jerk, and he extended a fighting, clenched fist to¬ 
ward his breathless audience. “I ’ll tell you some¬ 
thing,” he said slowly, viciously; “the team can’t 
win alone day after to-morrow. It can’t win alone! 
You’ve got to fight. Damn itl You’ve got 
to fight! Raleigh’s good, damn good; it hasn’t 
lost a game this season—and we’ve got to win, 
win! Do you hear? We’ve got to win! And 
there’s only one way that we can win, and that *s 
with every man back of the team. Every god¬ 
damned mother’s son of you. The team’s good, 
but it can’t win unless you fight— fight!” 

Suddenly his voice grew softer, almost gentle. 
He held out both hands to the boys, who had be- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


76 

come so tense that they had forgotten to smoke. 
“We’ve got to win, fellows, for old Sanford. Are 
you back of us?” 

“Yes!” The tension shattered into a thousand 
yells. The boys leaped on the chairs and shouted 
until they could shout no more. When Gifford 
called for “a regular cheer for Jack Price” and then 
one for the team—“Make it the biggest you ever 
gave”—they could respond with only a hoarse 
croak. 

Finally the hymn was sung—at least, the boysj 
tried loyally to sing it—and they stood silent 
and almost reverent as the team filed out of the 
gymnasium. 

Hugh walked back to Surrey Hall with several! 
men. No one said a word except a quiet good 
night as they parted. Carl was in the room when 
he arrived. He sank into a chair and was silent 
for a few minutes. 

Finally he said in a happy whisper, “Was ri’t it 
wonderful, Carl?” 

“Un-huh. Damn good.” 

“Gosh, I hope we win. We’ve got to!” 

Carl looked up, his cheeks redder than usual, hisl 
eyes glittering. “God, yes!” he breathed piously.! 








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CHAPTER X 


T HE football season lasted from the first of 
October to the latter part of November, 
and during those weeks little was talked 
about, or even thought about, on the campus but 
football. There were undergraduates who knew 
the personnel of virtually every football team in the 
country, the teams that had played against each 
other, their relative merits, the various scores, the 
outstanding players of each position. Half the stu¬ 
dents at Sanford regularly made out “All Amer¬ 
ican” teams, and each man was more than willing to 
debate the quality of his team against that of any 
other. Night after night the students gathered in 
groups in dormitory rooms and fraternity houses, 
discussing football, football, football; even religion 
and sex, the favorite topics for “bull sessions,” 
could not compete with football, especially when 
some one mentioned Raleigh College. Raleigh was 
Sanford’s ancient rival; to defeat her was of cosmic 
importance. 

There was a game every Saturday. About half 
the time the team played at home; the other games 
were played on the rivals’ fields. No matter how 
far away the team traveled, the college traveled 
77 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


78 

with it. The men who had the necessary money 
went by train; a few owned automobiles: but most 
of the undergraduates had neither an automobile 
nor money for train fare. They “bummed” their 
way. Some of them emulated professional tramps 
and “rode the beams,” but most of them started 
out walking, trusting that kind-hearted motorists 
would pick them up and carry them at least part 
way to their destination. Although the distances 
were sometimes great, and although many motor¬ 
ists are not kind, there is no record of any man 
who ever started for a game not arriving in time 
for the referee’s first whistle. Somehow, by hook 
or by crook—and it was often by crook—the boys 
got there, and, what is more astonishing, they got 
back. On Monday morning at 8 145 they were in 
chapel, usually worn and tired, it is true, ready to 
bluff their way through the day’s assignments, and 
damning any instructor who was heartless enough 
to give them a quiz. Some of them were worn out 
from really harsh traveling experiences; some of 
them had more exciting adventures to relate behind 
closed doors to selected groups of confidants. 

Football! Nothing else mattered. And as the 1 
weeks passed, the excitement grew, especially as the 
day drew near for the Raleigh game, which this 
year was to be played on the Sanford field. What 
were Sanford’s chances? Would Harry Slade, 
Sanford’s great half-back, make All American? 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


79 

“Damn it to hell, he ought to- It ’ll be a stinkin 1 
shame if he don’t.” Would Raleigh’s line be able 
to stop Slade’s end runs? Slade I Slade! He 
was the team, the hope and adoration of the whole 
college. 

Three days before the “big game” the alumni be¬ 
gan to pour into town, most of them fairly recent 
graduates, but many of them gray-haired men who 
boasted that they had n’t missed a Sanford-Raleigh 
game in thirty years. Hundreds of alumni arrived, 
filling the two hotels to capacity and overrunning 
the fraternity houses, the students doubling up or 
seeking hospitality from a friend in a dormitory. 

In the little room in the rear of the Sanford Pool 
and Hilliard Parlors there was almost continual ex¬ 
citement. Jim McCarty, the proprietor, a big, 
jovial, red-faced man whom all the students called 
Mac, was the official stake-holder for the college. 
Bets for any amount could be placed with him. 
Money from Raleigh flowed into his pudgy hands, 
and he placed it at the odds offered with eager San¬ 
ford takers. By the day of the game his safe held 
thousands of dollars, most of it wagered at five to 
three, Raleigh offering odds. There was hardly 
an alumnus who did not prove his loyalty to San¬ 
ford by visiting Mac’s back room and putting down 
a few greenbacks, at least. Some were more loyal 
than others; the most loyal placed a thousand dol¬ 
lars—at five to two. 


3 o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

Tnere was rain for two days before the game, 
but on Friday night the clouds broke. A full moon 
seemed to shine them away, and the whole campus 
rejoiced with great enthusiasm. Most of the 
alumni got drunk to show their deep appreciation 
to the moon, and many of the undergraduates fol¬ 
lowed the example set by their elders. 

All Friday afternoon girls had been arriving, 
dozens of them, to attend the fraternity dances. 
One dormitory had been set aside for them, the nor¬ 
mal residents seeking shelter in other dormitories. 
No man ever objected to resigning his room to a 
girl. He never could tell what he would find when 
he returned to it Monday morning. Some of the 
girls left strange mementos. . . . 

No one except a few notorious grinds studied 
that night. Some of the students were, of course, 
at the fraternity dances; some of them sat in dormi¬ 
tory rooms and discussed the coming game from 
every possible angle; and groups of them wandered 
around the campus, peering into the fraternity 
houses, commenting on the girls, wandering on hum¬ 
ming a song that an orchestra had been playing, oc¬ 
casionally pausing to give a “regular cheer’’ for the 
moon. 

Hugh was too much excited to stay in a roon*; 
so with several other freshmen he traveled the 
campus. He passionately envied the dancers in the 
fraternity houses but consoled himself with the 




8 i 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

thought, “Maybe I ’ll be dancing at the Nu Delt 
house next year.” Then he had a spasm of fright. 
Perhaps the Nu Delts—perhaps no fraternity would 
bid him. The moon lost its brilliance; for a moment 
even the Sanford-Raleigh game was forgotten. 

The boys were standing before a fraternity house, 
and as the music ceased, Jack Collings suggested: 
“Let’s serenade them. You lead, Hugh.” 

Hugh had a sweet, light tenor voice. It was not 
at all remarkable, just clear and true; but he had 
easily made the Glee Club and had an excellent 
chance to be chosen freshman song-leader. 

Collings had brought a guitar with him. He 
handed it to Hugh, who, like most musical under¬ 
graduates, could play both a guitar and a banjo. 
“Sing that ‘I arise from dreams of thee’ thing that 
you were singing the other night. We ’ll hum.” 

Hugh slipped the cord around his neck, tuned the 
guitar, and then thrummed a few opening chords. 
His heart was beating at double time; he was very 
happy: he was serenading girls at a fraternity dance. 
Couples were strolling out upon the veranda, the 
girls throwing warm wraps over their shoul¬ 
ders, the men lighting cigarettes and tossing the 
burnt matches on the lawn. Their white shirt- 
fronts gleamed eerily in the pale light cast by the 
Japanese lanterns with which the veranda was 
hung. 

Hugh began to sing Shelley’s passionate lyric, set 


82 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


so well to music by Tod B. Galloway. His mother 
had taught him the song, and he loved it. 

“I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 

When the winds are breathing low 
And the stars are shining bright. 

I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me—who knows how? 

To thy chamber-window, Sweet!” 

Two of the boys, who had heard Hugh sing the 
song before, hummed a soft accompaniment. When 
he began the second verse several more began to 
hum; they had caught the melody. The couples on 
the veranda moved quietly to the porch railing, 
their chatter silent, their attention focused on a 
group of dim figures standing in the shadow of an 
elm. Hugh was singing well, better than he ever 
had before. Neither he nor his audience knew that 
the lyric was immortal, but its tender, passionate 
beauty caught and held them. 

“The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream—• 

The champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 

The nightingale’s complaint 
It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine 
O beloved as thou art! 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


83 


“Oh lift me from the grass! 

I die, I faint, I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my cheeks and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast; 

Oh! press it close to thine again 
Where it will break at last.” 

There was silence for a moment after Hugh fin¬ 
ished. The shadows, the moonlight, the boy’s soft 
young voice had moved them all. Suddenly a girl 
on the veranda cried, “Bring him up!” Instantly 
half a dozen others turned to their escorts, insist¬ 
ing shrilly: “Bring him up. We want to see 
him.” 

Hugh jerked the guitar cord from around his 
neck, handed the instrument to Codings, and tried 
to run. A burst of laughter went up from the 
freshmen. They caught him and held him fast un¬ 
til the Tuxedo-clad upper-classmen rushed down 
from the veranda and had him by the arms. They 
pulled him, protesting and struggling, upon the ve¬ 
randa and into the living-room. 

The girls gathered around him, praising, demand¬ 
ing more. He flushed scarlet when one enthusiastic 
maiden forced her way through the ring, looked 
hard at him, and then announced positively, “I 
think he’s sweet.” He was intensely embarrassed, 
in an agony of confusion—but very happy. The 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


84 

girls liked his clean blondness, his blushes, his star¬ 
tled smile. How long they would have held him 
there in the center of the ring while they admired 
and teased him, there is no telling; but suddenly 
the orchestra brought relief by striking up a fox¬ 
trot. 

“He’s mine!” cried a pretty black-eyed girl with 
a cloud of bobbed hair and flaming cheeks. Her 
slender shoulders were bare; her round white arms 
waved in excited, graceful gestures; her corn-colored 
frock was a gauzy mist. She clutched Hugh’s arm. 
“He’s mine,” she repeated shrilly. “He’s going 
to dance with me.” 

Hugh’s cheeks burned a deeper scarlet. “My 
clothes,” he muttered, hesitating. 

“Your clothes! My dear, you look sweet. 
Take off your cap and dance with me.” 

Hugh snatched off his cap, his mind reeling with 
shame, but he had no time to think. The girl pulled 
him through the crowd to a clear floor. Almost 
mechanically, Hugh put his arm around her and 
began to dance. He could dance, and the girl had 
sense enough not to talk. She floated in his arm, 
her slender body close to his. When the music 
ceased, she clapped her little hands excitedly and 
told Hugh that he danced “won-der-ful-ly.” After 
the third encore she led him to a dark corner in the 
hall. 

“You ’re sweet, honey,” she said softly. She 


THE PLASTIC AGE 85 

turned her small, glowing face up to his. “Kiss 
me,” she commanded. 

Dazed, Hugh gathered her into his arms and 
kissed her little red mouth. She clung to him for 
a minute and then pushed him gently away. 

“Good night, honey,” she whispered. 

“Good night.” Hugh’s voice broke huskily. 
He turned and walked rapidly down the hall, upon 
the veranda, and down the steps. His classmates 
were waiting for him. They rushed up to him, de¬ 
manding that he tell them what had happened. 

He told them most of it, especially about the 
dance; but he neglected to mention the kiss. Shy¬ 
ness overcame any desire that he had to strut. Be¬ 
sides, there was something about that kiss that made 
it impossible for him to tell any one, even Carl. 
When he went to bed that night, he did not think 
once about the coming football game. Before his 
eyes floated the girl in the corn-colored frock. He 
wished he knew her name. . . . Closer and closer 
she came to him. He could feel her cool arms 
around his neck. “What a wonderful, wonderful 
girl! Sweeter than Helen—lots sweeter. . . . 
She’s like the night—and moonlight. . . . Like 
moonlight and—” The music of the Indian 
Serenade” began to thrill through his mind: 

“I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night. . . . 


86 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Oh, she’s sweet, sweet—like music and moon¬ 
light. . . He fell asleep, repeating “music and 
moonlight” over and over again—“music and moon¬ 
light. . . ” 

The morning of the “big game” proved ideal, 
crisp and cold, crystal clear. Indian summer was 
near its close, but there was still something of its 
dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed 
with glorious autumn foliage. The purples, the 
mauves, the scarlets, the burnt oranges were a little 
dimmed, a little less brilliant—the leaves were rus¬ 
tling dryly now—but there was beauty in dying au¬ 
tumn, its splendor slowly fading, as there was in its 
first startling burst of color,. 

Classes that Saturday morning were a farce, but 
they were held; the administration, which the boys 
damned heartily, insisted upon it. Some of the in¬ 
structors merely took the roll and dismissed their 
classes, feeling that honor had been satisfied; but 
others held their classes through the hour, lecturing 
the disgusted students on their lack of interest, 
warning them that examinations were n’t as far off 
as the millennium. 

Hugh felt that he was lucky; he had only one 
class—it was with Ailing in Latin—and it had been 
promptly dismissed. “When the day comes,” said 
Ailing, “that Latin can compete with football, I ’ll 
—well, I ’ll probably get a living wage. You had 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


87 

better go before I get to talking about a living 
wage. It is one of my favorite topics.’’ He waved 
his hand toward the door; the boys roared with 
delight and rushed out of the room, shoving each 
other and laughing. They ran out of the building; 
all of them were too excited to walk. 

By half-past one the stands were filled. Most 
of the girls wore fur coats, as did many of the 
alumni, but the students sported no such luxuries; 
nine tenths of them wore “baa-baa coats,” gray jack¬ 
ets lined with sheep’s wool. Except for an occa¬ 
sional banner, usually carried by a girl, and the 
bright hats of the women, there was little color to 
the scene. The air was sharp, and the spectators 
huddled down into their warm coats. 

The rival cheering sections, seated on opposite 
sides of the field, alternated in cheering and singing, 
each applauding the other’s efforts. The cheering 
was n’t very good, and the singing was worse; but 
there was a great deal of noise, and that was about 
all that mattered to either side. 

A few minutes before two, the Raleigh team 
ran upon the field. The Raleigh cheering section 
promptly went mad. When the Sanford team ap¬ 
peared a minute later, the Sanford cheering section 
tried its best to go madder, the boys whistling and 
yelling like possessed demons. Wayne Gifford 
brought them to attention by holding his hands 
above his head. He called for the usual regular 


88 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

cheer for the team and then for a short cheer for 
each member of it, starting with the captain, Sher¬ 
man Walford, and ending with the great half-back, 
Harry Slade. 

Suddenly there was silence. The toss-up had 
been completed; the teams were in position on the 
field. Slade had finished building a slender pyra¬ 
mid of mud, on which he had balanced the ball. 
The referee held up his hand. “Are you ready, 
Sanford?” Walford signaled his readiness. “Are 
you ready, Raleigh?” 

The shrill blast of the referee’s whistle—and the 
game was on. The first half was a see-saw up and 
down the field. Near the end of the half Raleigh 
was within twenty yards of the Sanford line. 
Shouts of “Score! Score! Score!” went up from 
the Raleigh rooters, rhythmic, insistent. “Hold 
’em! Hold ’em! Fight! Fight! Fight!” the 
Sanford cheering section pleaded, almost sobbing 
the words. A forward pass skilfully completed 
netted Raleigh sixteen yards. “Fight! Fight! 
Fight!” 

The timekeeper tooted his little horn; the half 
was over. For a moment the Sanford boys leaned 
back exhausted; then they leaped to their feet and 
yelled madly, while the Raleigh boys leaned back or 
against each other and swore fervently. Within 
two minutes the tension had departed. The rival 
cheering sections alternated in singing songs, ap- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


plauded each other vigorously, whistled at a fright¬ 
ened dog that tried to cross the field and nearly lost 
its mind entirely when called by a thousand masters, 
waited breathlessly when the cheer-leaders an¬ 
nounced the results from other football games that 
had been telegraphed to the field, applauded if Har¬ 
vard was losing, groaned if it was n’t, sang some 
more, relaxed and felt consummately happy. 

Sanford immediately took the offensive in the 
second half. Slade was consistently carrying the 
ball. Twice he brought it within Raleigh’s twenty- 
five-yard line. The first time Raleigh held firm, 
but the second time Slade stepped back for a drop- 
kick. The spectators sat silent, breathless. The 
angle was difficult. Could he make it? Would the 
line hold? 

Quite calmly Slade waited. The center passed 
the ball neatly. Slade turned it in his hands, paid 
not the slightest attention to the mad struggle go« 
ing on a few feet in front of him, dropped the ball 
—and kicked. The ball rose in a graceful arc and 
passed safely between the goal-posts. 

Every one, men and women alike, the Raleigh 
adherents excepted, promptly turned into extraor¬ 
dinarily active lunatics. The women waved their 
banners and shrieked, or if they had no banners, 
they waved their arms and shrieked; the men danced 
up and down, yelled, pounded each other on the 
back, sometimes wildly embraced—many a woman 


9 o THE PLASTIC AGE 

was kissed by a man she had never seen before and 
never would again, nor did she object—Wayne Git- 
ford was turning handsprings, and many of the stu¬ 
dents were feebly fluttering their hands, voiceless, 
spent with cheering, weak from excitement. 

Early in the fourth quarter, however, Raleigh got 
its revenge, carrying the ball to a touch-down after 
a series of line rushes. Sanford tried desperately 
to score again, but its best efforts were useless 
against the Raleigh defense. 

The final whistle blew; and Sanford had lost. 
Cheering wildly, tossing their hats into the air, the 
Raleigh students piled down from the grand stand 
upon the field. With the cheer-leaders at the head, 
waving their megaphones, the boys rapidly formed 
into a long line in uneven groups, holding arms, 
dancing, shouting, winding in and out around the 
field, between the goal-posts, tossing their hats over 
the bars, waving their hands at the Sanford men 
standing despondently in their places—in and out, 
in and out, in the triumphant serpentine. Finally 
they paused, took off their hats, cheered first their 
own team, then the Sanford team, and then sang 
their hymn while the Sanford men respectfully un¬ 
covered, silent and despairing. 

When the hymn was over, the Sanford men quietly 
left the grand stand, quietly formed into a long line 
in groups of fours, quietly marched to the college 
flagpole in the center of the campus. A Sanford 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


9i 


banner was flying from the pole, a blue banner with 
an orange S. Wayne Gifford loosened the ropes. 
Down fluttered the banner, and the boys reverently 
took off their hats. Gifford caught the banner be¬ 
fore it touched the ground and gathered it into his 
arms. The song-leader stepped beside him. He 
lifted his hand, sang a note, and then the boys sang 
with him, huskily, sadly, some of them with tears 
streaming down their cheeks: 

“Sanford, Sanford, mother of men, 

Love us, guard us, hold us true. 

Let thy arms enfold us; 

Let thy truth uphold us. 

Queen of colleges, mother of men— 

Alma mater, Sanford—hail! 

Alma mater—Hail!—Hail!” 

Slowly the circle broke into small groups that 
straggled wearily across the campus. Hugh, with 
two or three others, was walking behind two young 
professors—one of them, Ailing, the other, Jones 
of the economics department. Hugh was almost 
literally broken-hearted; the defeat lay on him like 
an awful sorrow that never could be lifted. Every 
inch of him ached, but his despair was greater than 
his physical pain. The sharp, clear voice of Jones 
broke into his half-deadened consciousness. 

“I can’t understand all this emotional excite¬ 
ment,” said Jones crisply. “A football game is a 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


92 

football game, not a national calamity. I enjoy the 
game myself, but why weep over it? I don’t think 
I ever saw anything more absurd than those boys 
singing with tears running into their mouths.” 

Shocked, the boys looked at each other. They 
started to make angry remarks but paused as Ailing 
spoke. 

“Of course, what you say, Jones, is quite right,” 
he remarked calmly, “quite right. But, do you 
know, I pity you.” 

“Ailing’s a good guy,” Hugh told Carl later; 
“he’s human.” 



CHAPTER XI 


A FTER the Sanford-Raleigh game, the col¬ 
lege seemed to be slowly dying. The boys 
held countless post-mortems over the 
game, explaining to each other just how it had been 
lost or how it could have been won. They watched 
the newspapers eagerly as the sport writers an¬ 
nounced their choice for the so-called All American 
team. If Slade was on the team, the writer was 
conceded to “know his dope”; if Slade was n’t, the 
writer was a “dumbbell.” But all this pseudo¬ 
excitement was merely picking at the covers; there 
was no real heart in it. Gradually the football 
talk died down; freshmen ceased to write themes 
about Sanford’s great fighting spirit; sex and reli¬ 
gion once more became predominant at the “bull 
sessions*” 

Studies, too, began to find a place in the sun. 
Hour examinations were coming, and most of the 
boys knew that they were miserably prepared. 
Lights were burning in fraternity houses and dormi¬ 
tories until late at night, and mighty little of their 
glow was shed on poker parties and crap games. 
The college had begun to study. 

93 


94 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


When Hugh finally calmed down and took stock, 
he was horrified and frightened to discover how 
far he was behind in all his work. He had done 
his lessons sketchily from day to day, but he really 
knew nothing about them, and he knew that he 
did n’t. Since Morse’s departure, he had loafed, 
trusting to luck and the knowledge he had gained 
In high school. So far he had escaped a summons 
from the dean, but he daily expected one, and the 
mere thought of hour examinations made him 
shiver. He studied hard for a week, succeeding 
only in getting gloriously confused and more fright¬ 
ened. The examinations proved to be easier than 
he had expected; he didn’t fail in any of them, but 
he did not get a grade above a C. 

The examination flurry passed, and the college 
was left cold. Nothing seemed to happen. The 
boys went to the movies every night, had a peanut 
fight, talked to the shadowy actors; they played 
cards, pool, and billiards, or shot craps; Saturday 
nights many of them went to a dance at Hastings, 
a small town five miles away; they held bull sessions 
and discussed everything under the sun and some 
things beyond it; they attended a performance of 
Shaw’s “Candida” given by the Dramatic Society 
and voted it a “wet” show; and, incidentally, some 
of them studied. But, all in all, life was rather 
tepid, and most of the boys were merely marking 
time and waiting for Christmas vacation. 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


95 

For Hugh the vacation came and went with a 
rush. It was glorious to get home again, glorious 
to see his father and mother, and, at first, glorious 
to see Helen Simpson. But Helen had begun to 
pall; her kisses hardly compensated for her conver¬ 
sation. She gave him a little feeling of guilt, too, 
which he tried to argue away. “Kissing is n’t really 
wrong. Everybody pets; at least, Carl says they 
do. Helen likes it but . . .” Always that “but” 
intruded itself. “But it does n’t seem quite right 
when—I don’t really love her.” When he kissed 
her for the last time before returning to college, he 
had a distinct feeling of relief: well, that would be 
off his mind for a while, anyway. 

It was a sober, quiet crowd of students—for the 
first time they were students—that returned to their 
desks after the vacation. The final examinations 
were ahead of them, less than a month away; and 
those examinations hung over their heads like the 
relentless, glittering blade of a guillotine. The 
boys studied. “College life” ceased; there was a 
brief period of education. 

Of course, they did not desert the movies, and 
the snoW and ice claimed them. Part of Indian 
Lake was scraped free of snow, and every clear aft¬ 
ernoon hundreds of boys skated happily, explain¬ 
ing afterward that they had to have some exercise 
if they were going to be able to study. On those 
afternoons the lake was a pretty sight, zestful, alive 


96 THE PLASTIC AGE 

with color. Many of the men wore blue sweaters, 
some of them brightly colored Mackinaws, all of 
them knitted toques. As soon as the cold weather 
arrived, the freshmen had been permitted to substi¬ 
tute blue toques with orange tassels for their “baby 
bonnets.” The blue and orange stood out vividly 
against the white snow-covered hills, and the skates 
rang sharply as they cut the glare ice. 

There was snow-shoeing, skiing, and sliding “to 
keep a fellow fit so that he could do good work in 
his exams,” but much as the boys enjoyed the winter 
sports, a black pall hung over the college as the 
examination period drew nearer and nearer. The 
library, which had been virtually deserted all term, 
suddenly became crowded. Every afternoon and 
evening its big tables were filled with serious-faced 
lads earnestly bending over books, making notes, 
running their fingers through their hair, occasion¬ 
ally looking up with dazed eyes, or twisting about 
miserably. 

The tension grew greater and greater. The 
upper-classmen were quiet and businesslike, but most 
of the freshmen were frankly terrified. A few of 
them packed their trunks and slunk away, and a few 
more openly scorned the examinations and their 
frightened classmates; but they were the exceptions. 
All the buoyancy seemed gone out of the college; 
nothing was left but an intense strain. The dormi¬ 
tories were strangely quiet at night. There was 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


97 

no playing of golf in the hallways, no rolling of bats 
down the stairs, no shouting, no laughter; a man 
who made any noise was in danger of a serious beat¬ 
ing. Even the greetings as the men passed each 
other on the campus were quiet and abstracted. 
They ceased to cut classes. Everybody attended, 
and everybody paid close attention even to the most 
tiresome instructors. 

Studious seniors began to reap a harvest out of 
tutoring sections. The meetings were a dollar “a 
throw,” and for another dollar a student could get 
a mimeographed outline of a course. But the tu¬ 
toring sections were only for the “plutes” or the 
athletes, many of whom were subsidized by fra¬ 
ternities or alumni. Most of the students had to 
learn their own lessons; so they often banded to¬ 
gether in small groups to make the task less ardu¬ 
ous, finding some relief in sociability. 

The study groups, quite properly called seminars, 
would have shocked many a worthy professor had 
he been able to attend one; but they were truly 
educative, and to many students inspiring. The 
professor had planted the seed of wisdom with 
them; it was at the seminars that they tried hon¬ 
estly, if somewhat hysterically and irreverently, to 
make it grow. 

Hugh did most of his studying alone, fearing that 
the seminars would degenerate into bull sessions, 
as many of them did; but Carl insisted that he join 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


98 

one group that was going “to wipe up that god¬ 
damned English course to-night.” 

There were only five men at the seminar, which 
met in Surrey 19, because Pudge Jamieson, who was 
“rating” an A in the course and was therefore an 
authority, said that he would n’t come if there were 
any more. Pudge, as his nickname suggests, was 
plump. He was a round-faced, jovial youngster 
who learned everything with consummate ease, 
wrote with great fluency and sometimes real beauty, 
peered through his horn-rimmed spectacles amusedly 
at the world, and read every “smut” book that he 
could lay his hands on. His library of erotica was 
already famous throughout the college, his volumes 
of Balzac’s “Droll Stories,” Rabelais complete, 
“Mile, de Maupin,” Burton’s “Arabian Nights,” 
and the “Decameron” being in constant demand. 
He could tell literally hundreds of dirty stories, 
always having a new one on tap, always looking 
when he told it like a complacent cherub. 

There were two other men in the seminar. 
Freddy Dickson, an earnest, anemic youth, seemed 
to be always striving for greater acceleration and 
never gaining it; or as Pudge put it, “The trouble 
with Freddy is that he’s always shifting gears.” 
Larry Stillwell, the last man, was a dark, hand¬ 
some youth with exceedingly regular features, 
pomaded hair parted in the center and shining 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


99 

sleekly, fine teeth, and rich coloring: a “smooth” 
boy who prided himself on his conquests and the 
fact that he never got a grade above a C in his 
courses. There was no man in the freshman class 
with a finer mind, but he declined to study, declar¬ 
ing firmly that he could not waste his time acquiring 
impractical tastes for useless arts. 

“Now everybody shut up,” said Pudge, seating 
himself in a big chair and laboriously crossing one 
leg over the other. “Put some more wood on the 
fire, Hugh, will you?” 

Hugh stirred up the fire, piled on a log or so, 
and then returned to his chair, hoping against be¬ 
lief that something really would be accomplished 
in the seminar. All the boys, he excepted, were 
smoking, and all of them were lolling back in dan¬ 
gerously comfortable attitudes. 

“We’ve got to get going,” Pudge continued, 
“and we are n’t going to get anything done if we 
just sit around and bull. I’m the prof, and I’m 
going to ask questions. Now, don’t bull. If you 
don’t know, just say, ‘No soap,’ and if you do know, 
shoot your dope.” He grinned. “How’s that 
for a rime?” 

“Atta boy!” Carl exclaimed enthusiastically. 

“Shut up! Now, the stuff we want to get at to¬ 
night is the poetry. No use spending any time on 
the composition. My prof said that we would 


IOO 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


have to write themes in the exam, but we can’t do 
anything about that here. You ’re all getting by 
on your themes, anyway, are n’t you?” 

“Yeah,” the listening quartet answered in unison, 
Larry Stillwell adding dubiously, “Well, I’m get¬ 
ting C’s.” 

“Larry,” said Carl in cold contempt, “you ’re a 
goddamn liar. I saw a B on one of your themes 
the other day and an A on another. What are 
you always pulling that low-brow stuff for?” 

Larry had the grace to blush. “Aw,” he ex¬ 
plained in some confusion, “my prof’s full of hooey. 
He does n’t know a C theme from an A one. He 
makes me sick. He—” 

“Aw, shut up!” Freddy Dickson shouted. 
“Let’s get going; let’s get going. We gotta learn 
this poetry. Damn! I don’t know anything 
about it. I didn’t crack the book till two days 
ago.” 

Pudge took charge again. “Close your gabs, 
everybody,” he commanded sternly. “There’s no 
sense in going over the prose lit. You can do that 
better by yourselves. God knows I’m not going 
to waste my time telling you bone-heads what Car¬ 
lyle means by a hero. If you don’t know Odin 
from Mohammed by this time, you can roast in 
Dante’s hell for all of.me. Now listen; the prof 
said that they were going to make us place lines, 
and, of course, they ’ll expect us to know what the 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


IOI 


poems are about. Hell! how some of the boys are 
going to fox ’em.” He paused to laugh. “Jim 
Hicks told me this afternoon that ‘Philomela’ was 
by Shakspere.” The other boys did not under¬ 
stand the joke, but they all laughed heartily. 

“Now,” he went on, “I ’ll give you the name of 
a poem, and then you tell me what it’s about and 
who wrote it.” 

He leafed rapidly through an anthology. “Carl, 
who wrote ‘Kubla Khan’?” 

Carl puffed his pipe meditatively. “I’m going 
to fox you, Pudge,” he said, frankly triumphant; 
“I know. Coleridge wrote it. It seems to be 
about a Jew who built a swell joint for a wild woman 
or something like that. I can’t make much out of 
the damn thing.” 

“That’s enough. Smack for Carl,” said Pudge 
approvingly. “Smack” meant that the answer was 
satisfactory. '“Freddy, who wrote ‘La Belle Dame 
sans Merci’?” 

Freddy twisted in his chair, thumped his head 
with his knuckles, and finally announced with a 
groan of despair, “No soap.” 

“Hugh?” 

“No soap.” 

“Larry?” 

“Well,” drawled Larry, “I think Jawn Keats 
wrote it. It’s one of those bedtime stories with 
a kick. A knight gets picked up by a jane. He 


102 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


puts her on his prancing steed and beats it for the 
tall timber. Keats is n’t very plain about what 
happened there, but I suspect the worst. Anyhow, 
the knight woke up the next morning with an awful 
rotten taste in his mouth.” 

“Smack for Larry. Your turn, Carl. Who 
wrote The West Wind’?” 

“You can’t get me on that boy Masefield, Pudge. 
I know all his stuff. There isn’t any story ; it’s 
just about the west wind, but it’s a goddamn good 
poem. It’s the cat’s pajamas.” 

“You said it, Carl,” Hugh chimed in, “but I like 
‘Sea Fever’ better. 

“I must go down to the seas again, 

To the lonely sea and the sky. ... 

Gosh! that’s hot stuff. August, 1914’’s a peach, 
too.” 

“Yeah,” agreed Larry languidly; “I got a great 
kick when the prof read that in class. Masefield’s 
all right. I wish we had more of his stuff and less 
of Milton. Lord Almighty, how I hate Milton! 
What th’ hell do they have to give us that tripe 
for?” 

“Oh, let’s get going,” Freddy pleaded, running 
a nervous hand through his mouse-colored hair. 
“Shoot a question, Pudge.” 

“All right, Freddy.” Pudge tried to smile 
wickedly but succeeded only in looking like a beam- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


103 

ing cherub. “Tell us who wrote the ‘Ode on Inti¬ 
mations of Immortality from Recollections of Early 
Childhood/ Cripes 1 what a title l” 

Freddy groaned. “I know that Wadsworth 
wrote it, but that is all that I do know about it.” 

“Wordsworth, Freddy,” Carl corrected him. 
“Wordsworth. Henry W. Wordsworth.” 

“Gee, Carl, thanks.. I thought it was William.” 

There was a burst of laughter, and then Pudge 
explained. “It is William, Freddy. Don’t let 
Peters razz you. Just for that, Carl, you tell what 
it’s about.” 

“No soap,” said Carl decisively. 

“I know,” Hugh announced, excited and pleased. 

“Shoot!” 

“Well, it’s this reincarnation business. Words¬ 
worth thought you lived before you came on to this 
earth, and everything was fine when you were a 
baby but it got worse when you got older. That’s 
about all. It’s kinda bugs, but I like some of it.” 

“It isn’t bugs,” Pudge contradicted flatly; “it’s 
got sense. You do lose something as you grow 
older, but you gain something, too. Wordsworth 
admits that. It’s a wonderful poem, and you ’re 
dumbbells if you can’t see it.” He was very seri¬ 
ous as he turned the pages of the book and laid his 
pipe on the table at his elbow. “Now listen. This 
stanza has the dope for the whole poem.” He 
read the famous stanza simply and effectively: 


104 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 

The soul that rises with us, our life’s Star* 

Hath had elsewhere its setting 
And cometh from afar; 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 

But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God who is our home: 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 

Shades of the prison house begin to close 
Upon the growing Boy, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 

The Youth who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, 

And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 

At length the Man perceives it die away. 

And fade into the light of common day.” 

There was a moment’s silence when he finished, 
and then Hugh said reverently: “That is beautiful, 
Read the last stanza, will you, Pudge?” 

So Pudge read the last stanza, and then the boys 
got into an argument over the possible truth of the 
thesis of the poem. Freddy finally brought their 
back to the task in hand with his plaintive plea 
“We’ve gotta get going.” It was two o’clock ir 
the morning when the seminar broke up, Hugh ad 
mitting to Carl after their visitors departed thai 


THE PLASTIC AGE io $\ 

he had not only learned a lot but that he had en¬ 
joyed the evening heartily. 

The college grew quieter and quieter as the day 
for the examinations approached. There were 
seminars on everything, even on the best way to 
prepare cribs. Certain students with low grades 
and less honor would somehow gravitate together 
and discuss plans for “foxing the profs.” Opinions 
differed. One man usually insisted that notes in 
the palm of the left hand were safe from detection, 
only to be met by the objection that they had to be 
written in ink, and if one’s hand perspired, “and it 
was sure as hell to,” nothing was left but an inky 
smear. Another held that a fellow could fasten a 
rubber band on his forearm and attach the notes to 
those, pulling them down when needed and then 
letting them snap back out of sight into safety. 
“But,” one of the conspirators was sure to object, 
“what th’ hell are you going to do if the band 
breaks?” Some of them insisted that notes placed 
in the inside of one’s goloshes—all the students 
wore them but took them off in the examination- 
room—could be easily read. “Yeah, but the proc¬ 
tors are wise to that stunt.” And so ad infinitum. 
Eventually all the “stunts” were used and many 
more. Not that all the students cheated. Every¬ 
thing considered, the percentage of cheaters was 
not great, but those who did cheat usually spent 


106 THE PLASTIC AGE 

enough time evolving ingenious methods of pre¬ 
paring cribs and in preparing them to have learned 
their lessons honestly and well. 

The night before the first examinations the cam¬ 
pus was utterly quiet. Suddenly bedlam broke 
loose. Somehow every dormitory that contained 
freshmen became a madhouse at the same time. 
Hugh and Carl were in Surrey 19 earnestly study¬ 
ing. Freddy Dickson flung the door open and 
shouted hysterically* “The general science exam’s 
out P 

Hugh and Carl whirled around in their desk- 
chairs. 

“What?” They shouted together. 

“Yeah! One of the fellows saw it. A girl that 
works at the press copied down the exam and gave 
it to him.” 

“What fellow? Where’s the exam?” 

“I don’t know who the guy is, but Hubert Man¬ 
ning saw the exam.” 

Hugh and Carl were out of their chairs in an 
instant, and the three boys rushed out of Surrey in 
search of Manning. They found him in his room 
telling a mob of excited classmates that he had n’t 
seen the exam but that Harry Smithson had. 
Away went the crowd in search of Smithson, Carl 
and Hugh and Freddy in the midst of the excited, 
chattering lads. Smithson had n’t seen the exam, 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


107 

but he had heard that Puddy McCumber had a 
copy, . 4 . Freshmen were running up and down 
stairs in the dormitories, shouting, “Have you seen 
the exam?” No, nobody had seen the exam, but 
some of the boys had been told definitely what the 
questions were going to be. No two seemed to 
agree on the questions, but everybody copied them 
down and then rushed on to search for a bona fide 
copy. They hurried from dormitory to dormitory, 
constantly shouting the same question, “Have you 
seen the exam?” There were men in every dormi¬ 
tory with a new list of questions, which were hastily 
scratched into note-books by the eager seekers. 
Until midnight the excitement raged; then the 
campus quieted down as the freshmen began to 
study the long lists of questions. 

“God!” said Carl as he scanned his list hopelessly, 
“these damn questions cover everything in the 
course and some things that I know damn well 
were n’t in it. What a lot of nuts we were. Let’s 
go to bed.” 

“Carl,” Hugh wailed despondently, “I’m going 
to flunk that exam. I can’t answer a tenth of these 
questions. I can’t go to bed; I’ve got to study. 
Oh, Lord!” 

“Don’t be a triple-plated jackass. Come on to 
bed. You ’ll just get woozy if you stay up any 
longer.” 


io8 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“All right,” Hugh agreed wearily. He went t( 
bed, but many of the boys stayed up and studied 
some of them all night. 

The examinations were held in the gymnasium 
Hundreds of class-room chairs were set in evei 
rows. Nothing else was there, not even the gym 
nasium apparatus. A few years earlier a wily stU; 
dent had sneaked into the gymnasium the night be 
fore an examination and written his notes on 
dumbbell hanging on the wall. The next day h 
calmly chose the seat in front of the dumbbell—an< 
proceeded to write a perfect examination. The ar 
notated dumbbell was found later, and after that th 
walls were stripped clean of apparatus before th 
examinations began. 

At a few minutes before nine the entire fresl 
man class was grouped before the doors of the gyn 
nasium, nervously talking, some of them glancin 
through their notes, others smoking—some of ther 
so rapidly that the cigarettes seemed to melt, other| 
walking up and down, muttering and mumbling 
all of them so excited, so tense that they hard! 
knew what they were doing. Hugh was trying tl 
think of a dozen answers to questions that poppe 
into his head, and he could n’t think of anything. 

Suddenly the doors were thrown open. Yelling 
shoving each other about, fairly dancing in the: 
eagerness and excitement, the freshmen rushed int 
the gymnasium. Hugh broke from the mob < 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


iog? 

quickly as possible, hurried to a chair, and snatched 
up a copy of the examination that was lying on its 
broad arm. At the first glance he thought that he 
could answer all the questions; a second glance re¬ 
vealed four that meant nothing to him. For a mo¬ 
ment he was dizzy with hope and despair, and then, 
all at once, he felt quite calm. He pulled off his 
goloshes and prepared to go to work. 

Within three minutes the noise had subsided. 
There was a rustling as the boys took off their baa- 
baa coats and goloshes, but after that there was no 
sound save the slow steps of the proctors pacing 
up and down the aisle. Once Hugh looked up, 
thinking desperately, almost seizing an idea that 
Boated nebulous and necessary before him. A 
proctor that he knew caught his eye and smiled 
fatuously. Hugh did not smile back. He could 
have cried in his fury. The idea was gone 
forever. 

Some of the students began to write imme¬ 
diately; some of them leaned back and stared at 
the ceiling; some of them chewed their pencils nerv¬ 
ously; some of them leaned forward mercilessly 
pounding a knee; some of them kept running one 
Dr both hands through their hair; some of them 
wrote a little and then paused to gaze blankly be¬ 
fore them or to tap their teeth with a pen or pen- 
:il: all of them were concentrating with an intensity 
chat made the silence electric; 


110 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

That proctor’s idiotic smile had thrown Hugh’* 
thoughts into what seemed hopeless confusion, but 
a small incident almost immediately brought ordei 
and relief. The gymnasium cat was wandering 
around the rear of the gymnasium. It attractec 
the attention of several of the students—and of J 
proctor. Being very careful not to make am 
noise, he picked up the cat and started for the door 
Almost instantly every student looked up; anc 
then the stamping began. Four hundred freshmei 
stamped in rhythm to the proctor’s steps. H< 
blushed violently, tried vainly to look unconcerned 
and finally disappeared through the door with th 
cat. Hugh had stamped lustily and laughed ii 
great glee at the proctor’s confusion; then he rd 
turned to his work, completely at ease, his nervous 
ness gone. 

One hour passed, two hours. Still the freshme 
wrote; still the proctors paced up and down. Sue 
denly a proctor paused, stared intently at a yout 
who was leaning forward in his chair, walke 
quickly to him, and picked up one of his goloshe: 
The next instant he had a piece of paper in h: 
hand and was walking down the gymnasium afte 
beckoning to the boy to follow him. The bo 
shoved his feet into his goloshes, pulled on h 
baa-baa coat, and, his face white and strainec 
marched down the aisle. The proctor spoke a fe' 
words to him at the door. He nodded, opened tli 



THE PLASTIC AGE m 

ioor, left the gymnasium—and five hours later the 
ollege. 

Thus the college for ten days: the better students 
loderately calm, the others cramming information 
ito aching heads, drinking unbelievable quantities 
f coffee, sitting up, many of them, all night, attend- 
ig seminars or tutoring sessions, working for long 
ours in the library, finally taking the examination, 
nly to start a new nerve-racking grind in prepara- 
on for the next one. 

If a student failed in a course, he received a “flunk 
otice” from the registrar’s office within four days 
fter the examination, so that four days after the 
ast examination every student knew whether he 
ad passed his courses or not. All those who 
ailed to pass three courses were, as the students 
ut it, “flunked out,” or as the registrar put it, 
their connection with the college was severed.” 
ome of the flunkees took the news very casually, 
acked their trunks, sold their furniture, and de- 
arted; others frankly wept or hastened to their 
istructors to plead vainly that their grades be 
aised: all of them were required to leave Haydens- 
ille at once. 

Hugh passed all of his courses but without dis- 
nction. His B in trigonometry did not give him 
reat satisfaction inasmuch as he had received an 
l in exactly the same course in high school; nor 
*as he particularly proud of his B in English, since 


112 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

he knew that with a little effort he could have 
“pulled” an A. The remainder of his grades were 
C’s and D’s, mostly D’s. He felt almost as much 
ashamed as Freddy Dickson, who somehow had n’t 
“got going” and had been flunked out. Carl re¬ 
ceived nothing less than a C, and his record made 
Hugh more ashamed of his own. Carl never 
seemed to study, but he had n’t disgraced himself 

Hugh spent many bitter hours thinking about hh 
record. What would his folks think? Worse 
what would they say? Finally he wrote to them 

Dear Mother and Dad : 

I have just found out my grades. I think that they wil 
be sent to you later. Well, I did n’t flunk out but nr 
record is n’t so hot. Only two of my grades are any goods 
I got a B in English and Math but the others are all C" 
and D’s. I know that you will be ashamed of me and I ’n 
awfully sorry. I’ve thought of lots of excuses to writ! 
to you, but I guess I won’t write them. I know that 
did n’t study hard enough. I had too much fun. 

I promise you that I ’ll do better next time. I kno\ 
that I can. Please don’t scold me. 

Lots of love, 

Hugh. 

All that his mother wrote in reply was, “O 
course, you will do better next time.” The kino 
ness hurt dreadfully. Hugh wished that she ha 
scolded him. 


CHAPTER XII 


T HE college granted a vacation of three days 
between terms, but Hugh did not go home, 
nor did many of the other undergraduates. 
Phere was excitement in the air; the college was 
beginning to stew and boil again. Fraternity rush¬ 
ing was scheduled for the second week of the new 
term. 

The administration strictly prohibited the rush¬ 
ing of freshmen the first term; and, in general, the 
fraternities respected the rule. True, the frater¬ 
nity men were constantly visiting eligible freshmen, 
chatting with them, discussing everything with them 
except fraternities. That subject was barred. 

Hugh and Carl received a great many calls from 
upper-classmen the first term, and Hugh had been 
astonished at Carl’s reticence and silence. Carl, 
the flippant, the voluble, the “wise-cracker,” lost 
his tongue the minute a man wearing a fraternity 
pin entered the room. Hugh was forced to enter¬ 
tain the all-important guest. Carl never explained 
how much he wanted to make a good fraternity, 
not any fraternity, only a good one; nor did he ex¬ 
plain that his secret studying the first term had been 
113 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


i*4 

inspired by his eagerness to be completely eligible 
A good fraternity would put the seal of aristoi 
racy on him; it would mean everything to the “ol 
lady.” 

For the first three nights of the rushing seaso 
the fraternities held open house for all freshmei 
but during the last three nights no freshman W 2 
supposed to enter a fraternity house unless invitee 

The first three nights found the freshmen trave 
ing in scared groups from fraternity house to fr: 
ternity house, sticking close together unless rathe 
vigorously pried apart by their hosts. Everybod 
was introduced to everybody else; everybody trie 
rather hopelessly to make conversation, and near] 
everybody smoked too much, partly because the 
were nervous and partly because the “smokes” wei 
free. 

It was the last three nights that counted. Bot 
Hugh and Carl received invitations from most <f 
the fraternities, and they stuck together, religious! 
visiting them all. Hugh hoped that they woul 
“make” the same fraternity and that that frate 
nity would be Nu Delta. They were together .4 
consistently during the rushing period that tlj| 
story went around the campus that Carver and P 
ters were “going the same way,” and that Carv<‘ 
had said that he would n’t accept a bid from arj 
fraternity unless it asked Peters, too. 

Hugh heard the story and could n’t understar 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


it. Everybody seemed to take it for granted that 
he would be bid. Why did n’t they take it equally 
for granted that Carl would be bid as well? He 
thought perhaps it was because he was an athlete 
and Carl was n’t; but the truth was, of course, that 
the upper-classmen perceived the nouveau riche 
quality in Carl quite as clearly as he did himself. 
He knew that his money and the fact that he had 
gone to a fashionable prep school would bring him 
bids, but would they be from the right fraternities? 
That was the all-important question. 

Those last three days of rushing were nerve- 
racking. At night the invited freshmen—and that 
meant about two thirds of the class—were at the 
fraternity houses until eleven; between classes and 
during every free hour they were accosted by ear¬ 
nest fraternity men, each presenting the superior 
merits of his fraternity. The fraternity men were 
wearier than the freshmen. They sat up until the 
small hours every morning discussing the freshmen 
they had entertained the night before. 

Hugh was in a daze. Over and over he heard 
the same words with only slight variations. A fra¬ 
ternity man would slap a fat book with an excited 
hand and exclaim: “This is ‘Baird’s Manual,’ the 
final authority on fraternities, and it’s got ab¬ 
solutely all the dope. You can see where we 
stand. Sixty chapters! You don’t join just this 
one, y’ understand; you join all of ’em. You’re 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


ii 6 

welcome wherever you go.” Or, if the number of 
chapters happened to be small, “Baird’s Manual” 
was referred to again. “Only fifteen chapters, you 
see. We don’t take in new chapters every time 
they ask. We ’re darned careful to know what 
we ’re signing up before we take anybody in.” 
The word “aristocratic” was carefully avoided, but 
it was just as carefully suggested. 

It seemed to Hugh that he was shown a photo¬ 
graph of every fraternity house in the country.; 
“Look,” he would be told by his host, “look at that 
picture to the right of the fireplace. That’s our 
house at Cornell. Isn’t it the darb? And look 
at that one. It’s our house at California. Some 
palace. They’ve got sunken gardens. I was out 
there last year to our convention. The boys cer¬ 
tainly gave us a swell time.” 

All this through a haze of tobacco smoke and 
over the noise of a jazz orchestra and the chatter 
of a dozen similar conversations. Hugh was ex¬ 
cited but not really interested. The Nu Deltas in-3 
vited him to their house every evening, but they 
were not making a great fuss over him. Perhaps 
they were n’t going to give him a bid. , . . Well, 
he’d go some other fraternity. No, he would n’t, 
either. Maybe the Nu Deltas would bid him later 
after he ’d done something on the track. 

Although actual pledging was not supposed to be 
done until Saturday night, Hugh was receiving what 


THE PLASTIC AGE 117 

amounted to bids all that day and the night before. 
Several times groups of fraternity men got into a 
room, closed the door, and then talked to him until 
he was almost literally dizzy. He was wise enough 
not to make any promises. His invariable an^ 
swer was: “I don’t know yet. I won’t know until 
Saturday night.” 

Carl was having similar experiences, but neither 
of them had been talked to by Nu Deltas. The 
president of the chapter, Merle Douglas, had said 
to Hugh in passing, “We’ve got our eye on you, 
Carver,” and that was all that had been said. 
Carl did not have even that much consolation. But 
he was n’t so much interested in Nu Delta as Hugh 
was; Kappa Zeta or Alpha Sigma would do as well. 
Both of these fraternities were making violent ef¬ 
forts to get Hugh, but they were paying only polite 
attention to Carl. 

On Friday night Hugh was given some advice 
that he had good reason to remember in later years. 
At the moment it did not interest him a great deal. 

He had gone to the Delta Sigma Delta house, 
not because he had the slightest interest in that fra¬ 
ternity but because the Nu Deltas had not urged 
him to remain with them. The Delta Sigma 
Deltas welcomed him enthusiastically and turned 
him over to their president, Malcolm Graham, a 
tall, serious senior with sandy hair and quiet brown 
eyes. 


118 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“Will you come up-stairs with me, Carver? I 
want to have a talk with you,” he said simply. 

Hugh hesitated. He did n’t mind being talked 
to } but he was heartily sick of being talked at. 

Graham noticed his hesitation and smiled. 
“Don’t worry; I’m not going to shanghai you, and 
I’m not going to jaw you to death, either.” 

Hugh smiled in response. “I ’m glad of that,” 
he said wearily. “I’ve been jawed until I don’t 
know anything.” 

“I don’t doubt it. Come on; let’s get away 
from this racket.” He took Hugh by the arm and 
led him up-stairs to his own room, which was pleas¬ 
antly quiet and restful after the noise they had left. 

When they were both seated in comfortable 
chairs, Graham began to talk. “I know that you 
are being tremendously rushed, Carver, and I know 
that you are going to get a lot of bids, too. I’ve 
been watching you all through this week, and you 
seem dazed and confused to me, more confused 
even than the average freshman. I think I know 
the reason.” 

“What is it?” Hugh demanded eagerly. 

“I understand that your father is a Nu Delt.” 

Hugh nodded. 

“And you ’re afraid that they are n’t going to 
bid you.” 

Hugh was startled. “How did you know?” 
He never thought of denying the statement. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


119 

“I guessed it. You were obviously worried; you 
visited other fraternities; and you did n’t seem to 
enjoy the attention that you were getting. I ’ll tell 
you right now that you are worrying about nothing; 
the Nu Delts will bid you. They are just taking' 
you for granted; that’s all. You are a legacy, and 
you have accepted all their invitations to come 
around. If you had stayed away one night, there 
would have been a whole delegation rushing around 
the campus to hunt you up.” 

Hugh relaxed. For the time being he believed 
Graham implicitly. 

“Now,” Graham went on, “it’s the Nu Delts 
that I want to talk about. Oh, I’m not going to 
knock them,” he hastened to add as Hugh eyed 
him suspiciously. “I know that you have heard 
plenty of fraternities knocking each other, but I am 
sure that you have n’t heard any knocking in this 
house.” 

“No I have n’t,” Hugh admitted. 

“Well, you are n’t going to, either. The Nu 
Delts are much more important than we are. 
They are stronger locally, and they’ve got a very 
powerful national organization. But .I don’t think 
that you have a very clear notion about the Nu 
Delts or us or any other fraternity. I heard you 
talking about fraternities the other night, and, if 
you will forgive me for being awfully frank, you 
were talking a lot of nonsense.” 


120 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Hugh leaned forward eagerly. He was n’t of¬ 
fended, and for the first time that week he did n’t 
feel that he was being rushed. 

“Well, you have a lot of sentimental notions 
about fraternities that are all bull; that s all. 
You think that the brothers are really brothers, 
that they stick by each other and all that sort of 
thing. You seem to think, too, that the fra¬ 
ternities are democratic. They are n’t, or there 
wouldn’t be any fraternities. You don’t seem to 
realize that fraternities are among other things po¬ 
litical organizations, fighting each other on the 
campus for dear life. You ’ve heard fraternities 
this week knocking each other. Well, about nine 
tenths of what’s been said is either lies or true of 
every fraternity on the campus. These fraterni¬ 
ties are n’t working together for the good of San¬ 
ford; they’re working like hell to ruin each other. 
You think that you are going to like every man in 
the fraternity you join. You won’t. You 11 hate 
some of them.” j 

Hugh was aroused and indignant. “If you fee 
that way about it, why do you stay in a fraternity?’ 

Graham smiled gravely. “Don’t get angry] 
please. I stay because the fraternity has its vir 
tues as well as its faults. I hated the fraternity 
the first two years, and I’m afraid that you ’r 
going to, too. You see, I had the same sort' o 
notions you have—and it hurt like the devil whei 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


121 


they were knocked into a cocked hat. The frater¬ 
nity is a pleasant club: it gets you into campus ac¬ 
tivities; and it gives you a social life in college that 
you can’t get without it. It is n’t very important 
to most men after they graduate. Just try to raise 
some money from the alumni some time, and you ’ll 
find out. Some of them remain undergraduates 
all their lives, and they think that the fraternity is 
important, but most of them hardly think of it ex¬ 
cept when they come back to reunions. They ’re 
more interested in their clubs or the Masons or 
something of that sort.” 

“My father has n’t remained an undergraduate 
all his life, but he’s interested in the Nu Belts,” 
Hugh countered vigorously. 

“I suppose he is,” Graham tactfully admitted, 
“but you ’ll find that most men are n’t. But that 
doesn’t matter. You aren’t an alumnus yet; 
you ’re a freshman, and a fraternity is a darn nice 
thing to have around while you are in college. 

“What I am going to say now,” he continued, 
hesitating, “is pretty touchy, and I hope that you 
won’t be offended. I have been trying to impress 
on you that the fraternity is most important while 
you are in college, and, believe me, it’s damned 
important. A fellow has a hell of a time if he gets 
into the wrong fraternity. ... I am sure that you 
are going to get a lot of bids. Bon t choose hast¬ 
ily. Spend to-morrow thinking the various bunches 


122 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


over—and choose the one that has the fellows that 
you like best, no matter what its standing on the 
campus is. Be sure that you like the fellows; that 
is all-important. We want you to come to us. I 
think that you would fit in here, but I am not going 
to urge you. Think us over. If you like us, ac¬ 
cept our bid; if you don’t, go some fraternity where 
you do like the fellows. And that’s my warning 
about the.Nu Delts. Be sure that you like the fel¬ 
lows, or most of them, anyway, before you accept 
their bid. Have you thought them over?” 

“No,” Hugh admitted, “I have n’t.” 

He didn’t like Graham’s talk; he thought that 
it was merely very clever rushing. He did Graham 
an injustice. Graham had been strongly attracted 
to Hugh and felt sure that he would be making a 
serious mistake if he joined Nu Delta. Hugh’s re¬ 
action, however, was natural. He had been rushed 
in dozens of ingenious ways for a week; he had 
little reason, therefore, to trust Graham or any¬ 
body else. 

Graham stood up. “I have a feeling, Carver,” 
he said slowly, “that I have flubbed this talk. I 
am sure that you ’ll know some day that I was 
really disinterested and wanted to do my best for 
you.” 

Hugh was softened and smiled shyly as he lifted 
himself out of his chair. “I know you did,” he 
said with more gratitude in his voice than he quite 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


123 

felt, “and I’m very grateful, but I’m so woozy 
now that I don’t know what to think.” 

“I don’t wonder. To tell you the truth, I am, 
too. I have n’t got to bed earlier than three 
o’clock any night this week, and right now I hardly 
care if we pledge anybody to-morrow night.” He 
continued talking as they walked slowly down the 
stairs. “One more bit of advice. Don’t go any¬ 
where else to-night. Go home to bed, and to¬ 
morrow think over what I ’ve told you. And,” he 
added, holding out his hand, “even if you don’t 
come our way, I hope I see a lot of you before the 
end of the term.” 

Hugh clasped his hand. “You sure will. 
Thanks a lot. Good night.” 

“Good night.” 

Hugh did go straight to his room and tried to 
think, but the effort met with little success. He 
wanted desperately to receive a bid from Nu Delta, 
and if he did n’t—well, nothing else much mattered. 
Graham’s assertion that Nu Delta would bid him 
no longer brought him any comfort. Why should 
Graham know what Nu Delta was going to do? 

Shortly after eleven Carl came in and threw him¬ 
self wearily into a chair. For a few minutes 
neither boy said anything; they stared into the fire 
and frowned. Finally Carl spoke. 

“I can go Alpha Sig if I want,” he said softly. 

Hugh looked up. “Good!” he exclaimed, hon- 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


124 

estly pleased. “But I hope we can both go Nu 
Delt. Did they come right out and bid you?” 

“Er—no. Not exactly. It’s kinda funny.” 
Carl obviously wanted to tell something and did n’t 
know how to go about it. 

“What do you mean ‘funny’? What hap¬ 
pened?” 

Carl shifted around in his chair nervously, filled 
his pipe, lighted it, and then forgot to smoke. 

“Well,” he began slowly, “Morton—you know 
that Alpha Sig, Clem Morton, the senior—well, he 
got me off into a corner to-night and talked to me 
quite a while, shot me a heavy line of dope. At 
first I did n’t get him at all. He was talking about 
how they needed new living-room furniture and| 
that sort of thing. Finally I got him. It’s like! 
this—well, it’s this way: they need money. Oh, 
hell! Hugh, don’t you see? They want money— 
and they know I’ve got it. All I’ve got to do is' 
to let them know that I’ll make the chapter a 
present of a thousand or two after initiation—and 
I can be an Alpha Sig,” 

Hugh was sitting tensely erect and staring atj 
Carl dazedly. 

“You mean,” he asked slowly, “that they want 
you to buy your way in?” 

Carl gave a short, hard laugh. “Well, nobody 
said anything vulgar like that, Hugh, but you’ve 
got the big idea.” 





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THE PLASTIC AGE 


12* 

“The dirty pups! The goddamn stinkers! I 
hope you told Morton to go straight to helL’ , 
Hugh jumped up and stood over Carl excitedly. 

“Keep your shirt on, Hugh. No, I did n’t tell 
him to go to hell. I did n’t say anything, but I 
know that all I’ve got to do to get an Alpha Sig 
bid to-morrow night is to let Morton know that I’d 
like to make the chapter a present. And I’m not 
sure—but I think maybe I ’ll do it.” 

“What!” Hugh cried. “You wouldn’t, Carl! 
You know damn well you would n’t.” He was al¬ 
most pleading. 

“Hey, quit yelling and sit down.” He got up, 
shoved Hugh back into his chair, and then sat down 
again. “I want to make one of the Big Three; 
I’ve got to. I don’t believe that either Nu Delt 
or Kappa Zete is going to bid me. See? This is 
my only chance—and I think that I’m going to take 
it.” He spoke deliberately, staring pensively into 
the fire. 

“I don’t see how you can even think of such a 
thing,” Hugh said in painful wonderment. “Why, 
I’d rather never join a fraternity than buy myself 
into one.” 

“You are n’t me.” 

“No, I’m not you. Listen, Carl.” Hugh 
turned in his chair and faced Carl, who kept his 
eyes on the dying fire. “I’m going to say some¬ 
thing awfully mean, but I hope you won’t get mad. 


126 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


• . . You remember you told me once that you 
were n’t a gentleman. I did n’t believe you, but if 
you buy yourself into that—that bunch of—of 
gutter-pups, I ’ll—I ’ll—oh, hell, Carl, I ’ll have to 
believe it.” He was painfully embarrassed, very 
much in earnest, and dreadfully unhappy. 

“I told you that I was n’t a gentleman,” Carl 
said sullenly. “Now you know it.” 

“I don’t know anything of the sort. I ’ll never 
believe that you could do such a thing.” He stood 
up again and leaned over Carl, putting his hand 
on his shoulder. “Listen, Carl,” he said soberly, 
earnestly, “I promise that I won’t go Nu Delt 01 
any other fraternity unless they take you, too, ii 
you ’ll promise me not to go Alpha Sig.” 

Carl looked up wonderingly. “What!” he ex 
claimed. “You ’ll turn down Nu Delt if they don’i. 
bid me, too?” 

“Yes, Nu Delt or Kappa Zete or any othei 
bunch. Promise me,” he urged; “promise me.” 

Carl understood the magnitude of the sacrifice 
offered, and his eyes became dangerously soft 
“God! you ’re white, Hugh,” he whispered huskily 
“white as hell. You go Nu Delt if they ask you— 
but I promise you that I won’t go Alpha Sig ever 
if they bid me without pay.” He held out hi 
hand, and Hugh gripped it hard. “I promise,” h< 
repeated, “on my word of honor.” 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


127 


At seven o’clock Saturday evening every fresh¬ 
man who had any reason at all to think that he 
would get a bid—and some that had no reason— 
collected in nervous groups in the living-room of 
the Union. At the stroke of seven they were per¬ 
mitted to move up to a long row of tables which 
were covered with large envelopes, one for every 
freshman. They were arranged in alphabetical or¬ 
der, and in an incredibly short time each man found 
the one addressed to him. Some of the envelopes 
were stuffed with cards, each containing the fresh¬ 
man’s name and the name of the fraternity bidding 
him; some of them contained only one or two cards 
—and some of them were empty. The boys who 
drew empty envelopes instantly left the Union with¬ 
out a word to anybody; the others tried to find a 
free space where they could scan their cards unob¬ 
served. They were all wildly excited and nervous. 
One glance at the cards, and their faces either 
lighted with joy or went white with disappointment. 

Hugh found ten cards in his envelope—and one 
of them had Nu Delta written on it. His heart 
leaped; for a moment he thought that he was going 
to cry. Then he rushed around the Union looking 
for Carl. He found him staring at a fan of cards, 
which he was holding like a hand of bridge. 

“What luck?” Hugh cried. 

Carl handed him the cards. “Lamp those,” he 


128 THE PLASTIC AGE 

said, “and then explain. They ’ve got me stopped.” 

He had thirteen bids, one from every fraternity 
in good standing, including the so-called Big Three. 

When Hugh saw the Nu Delta card he yelled 
with delight. 

“I got a Nu Delt, too.” His voice was trem¬ 
bling with excitement. “You ’ll go with me, won’t 
you ?” 

“Of course, Hugh. But I don’t understand.” 

“Oh, what’s the dif? Let’s go.” 

He tucked his arm in Carl’s, and the two of them 
passed out of the Union on their way to the Nu 
Delta house. Later both of them understood. 
Carl’s good looks, his excellent clothes, his money, 
and the fact that he had been to an expensive pre¬ 
paratory school were enough to insure him plenty 
of bids even if he had be^n considerably less of a 
gentleman than he was. 

Already the campus was ringing with shouts as 
freshmen entered fraternity houses, each freshman 
being required to report at once to the fraternity 
whose bid he was accepting. 

When Carl and Hugh walked up the Nu Delta 
steps, they were seized by waiting upper-classmen 
and rushed into the living-room, where they were 
received with loud cheers, slapped on the back, and 
passed around the room, each upper-classman shak¬ 
ing hands with them so vigorously that their hands 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


129 


hurt for an hour afterward. What pleasant pain! 
Each new arrival was similarly received, but the ex¬ 
citement did not last long. Both the freshmen and 
the upper-classmen were too tired to keep the en¬ 
thusiasm at the proper pitch. At nine o’clock the 
freshmen were sent home with orders to report the 
next evening at eight. 

Carl and Hugh, proudly conscious of the pledge 
buttons in the lapels of their coats, walked slowly 
across the campus, spent and weary, but exquisitely 
happy. 

“They bid me on account of you,” Carl said 
softly. “They did n’t think they could get you un¬ 
less they asked me, too.” 

“No,” Hugh replied, “you ’re wrong. They 
took you for yourself. They knew you would go 
where I did, and they were sure that I would go 
their way.” 

Hugh was quite right. The Nu Deltas had felt 
sure of both of them and had not rushed them 
harder because they were too busy to waste any 
time on certainties. 

Carl stopped suddenly. “God, Hugh,” he ex¬ 
claimed. “Just suppose I had offered the Alpha 
Sigs that cash. God!” 

“Aren’t you glad you didnt? Hugh asked 

happily. „ 

“Glad? Glad? Boy, I’m bug-house. And, 


i 3 o THE PLASTIC AGE 

he added softly, “I know the lad I Ve got to 
thank.” 

4 ‘Aw, go to hell.” 

The initiation season lasted two weeks, and the 
neophytes found that the dormitory initiations had 
been merely child’s play. They had to account for 
every hour, and except for a brief time allowed 
every day for studying, they were kept busy making 
asses of themselves for the delectation of the upper¬ 
classmen. 

In the Nu Delta house a freshman had to be on 
guard every hour of the day up to midnight. He 
was forced to dress himself in some outlandish cos¬ 
tume, the more outlandish the better, and announce 
every one who entered or left the house. “Mr. 
Standish entering,” he would bawl, or, “Mr. Ker- 
win leaving.” If he bawled too loudly, he was 
paddled; if he didn’t bawl loudly enough, he was 
paddled; and if there was no fault to be found with 
his bawling, he was paddled anyway. Every fresh¬ 
man had to supply his own paddle, a broad, stout 
oak affair sold at the cooperative store at a hand¬ 
some profit. 

If a freshman reported for duty one minute late, 
he was paddled; if he reported one minute early, 
he was paddled. There was no end to the pad¬ 
dling. “Assume the angle,” an upper-classman 
would roar. The unfortunate freshman then hum- 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


i 3 * 

bly bent forward, gripped his ankles with his hands 
—and waited. The worst always happened. The 
upper-classman brought the paddle down with a 
resounding whack on the seat of the freshman’s 
trousers. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Another resounding whack. “What?” 

“No—no, sir.” 

“Oh, well, if it does n’t hurt, I might as well give 
you another one.” And he gave him another one. 

A freshman was paddled if he forgot to say 
“sir” to an upper-classman; he was paddled if he 
neglected to touch the floor with his fingers every 
time he passed through a door in the fraternity 
house; he was paddled if he laughed when an upper¬ 
classman told a joke, and he was paddled if he 
didn’t laugh; he was paddled if he failed to return 
from an errand in an inconceivably short time: he 
was paddled for every and no reason, but mainly 
because the upper-classmen, the sophomores par¬ 
ticularly, got boundless delight out of doing the 
paddling. 

Every night a freshman stood on the roof of the 
Nu Delta house and announced the time every fif¬ 
teen seconds. “One minute and fifteen seconds 
after nine, and all’s well in the halls of Nu Delta, 
one minute and thirty seconds after nine, and all’s 
well in the halls of Nu Delta; one minute and 


132 THE PLASTIC AGE 

forty-five seconds after nine, and all ’s well in the 
halls of Nu Delta,” and so on for an hour. Then 
he was relieved by another freshman, who took up 
the chant. 

Nightly the freshmen had to entertain the upper¬ 
classmen, and if the entertainment was n’t satis¬ 
factory, as it never was, the entertainers were pad- 
died. They had to run races, shoving pennies 
across the floor with their noses. The winner was 
paddled for going too fast—“Did n’t he have any 
sense of sportsmanship?”—and the loser was pad- 
died for going too slow. Most of the freshmen 
lost skin off their noses and foreheads; all of them 
shivered at the sight of a paddle. By the end of 
the first week they were whispering to each other! 
how many blisters they had on their buttocks. 

It was a bitterly cold night in late February when 
the Nu Deltas took the freshmen for their “walk.” 
They drove in automobiles fifteen miles into the 
country and then left the freshmen to walk back. 
It was four o’clock in the morning when the miser¬ 
able freshmen reached the campus, half frozen, 
unutterably weary, but thankful that the end of the! 
initiation was at hand. 

Hugh was thankful for another thing; the Nt 
Deltas did not brand. He had noticed several mer 
in the swimming-pool with tiny Greek letters 
branded on their chests or thighs. The brandec 
ones seemed proud of their permanent insignia, bui 



133 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

lie idea of a fraternity branding its members like 
>eef-cattle was repugnant to Hugh. He told Carl 
hat he was darn glad the Nu Deltas were above 
hat sort of thing, and, surprisingly, Carl agreed 
vith him. 

The next night they were formally initiated, 
rhe Nu Delta house seemed strangely quiet; levity 
vas strictly prohibited. The freshmen were given 
vhite robes such as the upper-classmen were wear- 
ng, the president excepted, who wore a really hand- 
lome robe of blue and silver. 

Then they marched up-stairs to the “goat room.” 
Dnce there, the president mounted a dais; a 
‘brother” stood on each side of him. Hugh was 
50 much impressed by the ritual, the black hangings 
)f the room, the fraternity seal over the dais, the 
Drnate chandelier, the long speeches of the presi- 
ient and his assistants, that he failed to notice that 
nany of the brothers were openly bored. 

Eventually each freshman was led forward by 
an upper-classman. He knelt on the lowest step 
of the dais and repeated after the president the 
oath of allegiance. Then one of the assisting 
brothers whispered to him the password and taught 
him the “grip,” a secret and elaborate method of 
shaking hands, while the other pinned the jeweled 

pin to his vest. . , 

When each freshman had been received into the 
Fraternity, the entire chapter marched in twos 


134 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


down-stairs, singing the fraternity song. The ini 
tiation was over; Carl and Hugh were Nu Delts. 

The whole ceremony had moved Hugh deeply 
so deeply that he had hardly been able to repea 
the oath after the president. He thought the ril 
ual very beautiful, more beautiful even than th 
Easter service at church. He left the Nu Delt 
house that night feeling a deeper loyalty for th 
fraternity than he had words to express. He an< 
Carl walked back to Surrey 19 in silence. Neithe 
was capable of speech, though both of them wante< 
to give expression to their emotion in some way. 

They reached their room. 

“Well,” said Hugh shyly, “I guess I ’ll go t< 
bed.” 

“Me, too.” Then Carl moved hesitatingly t< 
where Hugh was standing. He held out his han< 
and grinned, but his eyes were serious. 

“Good night—brother.” 

Their hands met in the sacred grip. 

“Good night—brother.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

T O Hugh the remainder of the term was sim¬ 
ply a fight to get an opportunity to study. 
The old saying, “if study interferes with 
:ollege, cut out study,” did not appeal to him. He 
honestly wanted to do good work, but he found 
;hat the chance to do it was rare. Some one al¬ 
ways seemed to be in his room eager to talk; there 
was the fraternity meeting to attend every Monday 
night; early in the term there was at least one 
hockey or basketball game a week; later there were 
track meets, baseball games, and tennis matches; he 
had to attend Glee Club rehearsals twice a week; 
he ran every afternoon either in the gymnasium or 
on the cinder path; some one always seduced him 
into going to the movies; he was constantly being 
drawn into bull sessions; there was an occasional 
concert: and besides all these distractions, there 
was a fraternity dance, the excitement of Prom, a 
trip to three cities with the Glee Club, and final y 
a week’s vacation at home at Easter. 

Worst of all, none of his instructors was inspir¬ 
ing. He had been assigned to a new section in 
Latin, and in losing Ailing he lost the one really 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


136 

enjoyable teacher he had had. The others wer 
conscientious, more or less competent, but ther 
was little enthusiasm in their teaching, nothing t 
make a freshman eager either to attend their classe 
or to study the lessons they assigned. They di 
not make the acquiring of knowledge a thrilling e^ 
perience; they made it a duty—and Hugh foun 
that duty exceedingly irksome. 

He attended neither the fraternity dance nor tb 
Prom. He had looked forward enthusiastically t 
the “house dance,” but after he had, along wit 
the other men in his delegation, cleaned the housi 
from garret to basement, he suddenly took to h: 
bed with grippe. He groaned with despair whe 
Carl gave him glowing accounts of the dance aril 
the “janes.” Carl for once, however, was circun 
spect; he did not tell Hugh all that happened. H 
would have been hard put to explain his own ret 
cence, but although he thought “the jane who g< 
pie-eyed” had been enormously funny, he decide^ 
not to tell Hugh about her or the pie-eye 
brothers. 

No freshman was allowed to attend the Prorj 
but along w T ith the other men who were n’t “draf 
ging women” Hugh walked the streets and watchef 
the girls. There was a tea-dance at the fraternii 
house during Prom week. Hugh said that he g< 
a great kick out of it, but, as a matter of fact, If 
remained only a short time; there was a hectic qua 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


*37, 

ty to both the girls and the talk that confused him. 
For some reason he did n’t like the atmosphere; and 
de did n’t know why. His excuse to the brothers 
and to himself for leaving early was that he was in 
:raining and not supposed to dance. 

Track above all things was absorbing his inter¬ 
est. He could hardly think of anything else. 
He lay awake nights dreaming of the race he would 
run against Raleigh. Sanford had three dual track 
neets a year, but the first two were with small col- 
eges and considered of little importance. Only 
i point winner in the Raleigh meet was granted his 
etter. 

Hugh won the hundred in the sophomore-fresh- 
nan meet and in a meet with the Raleigh fresh- 
nen, so that he was given his class numerals. 
He did nothing, however, in the Raleigh meet; he 
vas much too nervous to run well, breaking three 
:imes at the mark. He was set back two yards 
md was never able to regain them. For a time he 
vas bitterly despondent, but he soon cheered up 
vhen he thought of the three years ahead of him. 

Spring brought first rain and slush and then the 
‘sings.” There was a fine stretch of lawn in the 
:enter of the campus, and on clear nights the stu¬ 
dents gathered there for a sing, one class on each 
jide of the lawn. First the seniors sang a college 
;ong, then the juniors, then the sophomores, and 
:hen the freshmen. After each song, the other 


/ 


138 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


classes cheered the singers, except when the sopho¬ 
mores and freshmen sang: they always ‘razzed 
each other. Hugh led the freshmen, and he never 
failed to get a thrill out of singing a clear note and 
hearing his classmates take it up. 

After each class had sung three or four songs 
the boys gathered in the center of the lawn, sand 
the college hymn, gave a cheer, and the sing wa?i 
over. 

On such nights, however, the singing really con 
tinued for hours. The Glee Club often sang from 
the Union steps; groups of boys wandered arm ill 
arm around the campus singing; on every frater 
nity steps there were youths strumming banjos anc 
others “harmonizing”: here, there, everywhere 
young voices were lifted in song—not joyous no 
jazzy but plaintive arid sentimental. Adeline’ 
sweetness was extolled by unsure barytones am 
“whisky” tenors; and the charms of Rosie O’Grad 
were chanted in “close harmony” in every corne 
of the campus: 


“Sweet Rosie O’Grady, 

She’s my pretty rose; 

She’s my pretty lady, 

As every one knows. 

And when we are married, 

Oh, how happy we ’ll be, 

For I love sweet Rosie O’Grady 
And Rosie O’Grady loves me.” 








THE PLASTIC AGE 


i39 

Hugh loved those nights: the shadows of the 
:1ms, the soft spring moonlight, the twanging ban- 
os, the happy singing. He would never, so long 
is he lived, hear “Rosie O’Grady” without surren- 
lering to a tender, sentimental mood; that song 
vould always mean the campus and singing youth. 

Suddenly examinations threw their baleful influ- 
:nce over the campus again. Once more the ex- 
:itement, but not so great this time, the cramming, 
he rumors of examinations “getting out,” the sem- 
nars, the tutoring sections, the nervousness, the 
ear. 

Hugh, however, was surer of himself than he 
lad been the first term, and although he had no 
•eason to be proud of the grades he received, he 
vas not particularly ashamed of them. 

He and Carl left the same day but by different 
rains. They had agreed to room together again 
n Surrey 19; so they didn’t feel that the parting 
or the summer was very important. 

“You ’ll write, won’t you, old man?” 

“Sure, Hugh—surest thing you know. Say, it 
lon’t seem possible that our freshman year’s over 
lready. Why, hell, Hugh, we ’re sophomores.” 

“So we are! What do you know about that?” 
iugh’s eyes shone. “Gosh!” 

Carl looked at his watch. “Hell, I’ve got to 
seat it.” He picked up his suit-case, dropped it, 
hook hands vigorously with Hugh, snatched up his 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


140 

suit-case, and was off with a final, “Good-by, Hug! 
old boy,” sounding behind him. 

Hugh settled back into a chair. He had half a 
hour to wait. 

“A sophomore. . . . Gosh I” 




CHAPTER XIV 


H UGH spent the summer at home, working 
on the farm, reading a little, and occa¬ 
sionally visiting a lake summer resort a 
few miles away. Helen had left Merrytown to 
attend a secretarial school in a neighboring city, and 
Hugh was genuinely glad to find her gone when he 
returned from college. Helen was becoming not 
only a bore but a problem. Besides, he met a girl 
at Corley Lake, the summer resort, whom he found 
much more fascinating. For a month or two he 
thought that he was in love with Janet Harton. 
Night after night he drove to Corley Lake in his 
father’s car, sometimes dancing with Janet in the 
pavilion, sometimes canoeing with her on the lake, 
sometimes taking her for long rides in the car, but 
often merely wandering through the pines with her 
or sitting on the shore of the lake and staring at 
the rippling water. 

Janet was small and delicate; she seemed almost 
fragile. She did everything daintily—like a little 
girl playing tea-party. Her hands and feet were 
exquisitely small, her features childlike and indefi¬ 
nite, except her little coral mouth, which was as 


142 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


clearly outlined with color as a doll’s and as mobile 
as a fluttering leaf. She had wide blue eyes and 
hair that was truly golden. Strangely, she had not 
bobbed it but wore it bound into a shining coil 
around her head. 

Hugh wrote a poem to her. It began thus: 

Maiden with the clear blue eyes, 

Lady with the golden hair, 

Exquisite child, serenely wise, 

Sweetly tender, morning fair. 

He was n’t sure that it was a very good poem; 
there was something reminiscent about the first 
line, and he was dubious about “morning fair.” 
He had, however, studied German for a year in 
high school, and he guessed that if morgenschon 
was all right in German it was all right in English, 
too. 

They rarely talked. Hugh was content to sit 
for hours with the delicate child nestling in his arm, 
her hand lying passive and cool in his. She made 
him feel very strong and protective. Nights, he 
dreamed of doing brave deeds for her, of saving 
her from terrible dangers. At first her vague, 
fleeting kisses thrilled him, but as the weeks went 
by and his passion grew, he found them strangely 
unsatisfying. 

When she cuddled her lovely head in the hollow 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


i43 

of his shoulder, he would lean forward and whis¬ 
per: “Kiss me, Janet. Kiss me.” Obediently 
she would turn her face upward, her little mouth 
pursed into a coral bud, but if he held her too 
tightly or prolonged the kiss, she pushed him away 
or turned her face. Then he felt repelled, chilled. 
She kissed him much as she kissed her mother every 
night, and he wanted—well, he did n’t quite know 
what he did want except that he did n’t want to be 
kissed that way. 

Finally he protested. “What’s the matter, 
Janet?” he asked gently. “Don’t you love me?” 

“Of course,” she answered calmly in her small 
flute-like voice; “of course I love you, but you are 
so rough. You mustn’t kiss me hard like that; it 
is n’t nice.” 

Nice! Hugh felt as if she had slapped his face. 
Then he knew that she did n’t understand at all. 
He tried to excuse her by telling himself that she 
was just a child—she was within a year of his own 
age—and that she would love him the way he did 
her when she grew older; but down in his heart 
he sensed the fact that she was n’t capable of love 
that she merely wanted to be petted and caresse 
as a child did. The shadows and the moonlight 
did not move her as they did him, and she thought 
that he was silly when he said that he could hear 
a song in the night breeze. She had said that his 
poem was very pretty. That was all. Well, 


144 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


maybe it was n’t a very good poem, but it had— 
well, it had—it had something in it that was n’t 
just pretty. 

He began to visit the lake less often and to wish 
that September and the opening of college would 
arrive. When the day finally came to return, he 
was almost as much excited as he had been the year 
before. Gosh! it would be good to see Carl again. 
The bum had written only once. Yeah, and Pudge 
Jamieson, too, and Larry Stillwell, and Bill Free¬ 
man, and—yes, by golly! Merton Billings. He’d 
be glad to see old Fat Billings. He wondered if 
Merton was as fat as ever and as pure. And all 
the brothers at the Nu Delta house. He’d been 
too busy to get really acquainted with them last 
year; but this year, by gosh, he’d get to know all 
of them. It certainly would be great to be back 
and be a sophomore and make the little frosh stand 
around. 

He did n’t carry his suit-case up the hill this time; 
he checked it and sent a freshman for it later. 
When he arrived at Surrey 19 Carl was already 
there—and he was kneeling before a trunk when 
Hugh walked into the room. Both of them in¬ 
stantly remembered the identical scene of the year 
before. 

Carl jumped to his feet. “Hullo—who are 
you?” he demanded, his face beaming. 

Hugh pretended to be frightened and shy. 



THE PLASTIC AGE 145 

*T’m Hugh Carver. I—I guess I’m going to 
room with you.” 

“You sure are!” yelled Carl, jumping over the 
trunk and landing on Hugh. “God! I’m glad 
to see you. Put it there.” They shook hands and 
stared at each other with shining eyes. 

Then they began to talk, interrupting each other, 
gesticulating, occasionally slapping each other vio¬ 
lently on the back or knee, shouting with laughter 
as one of them told of a summer experience that 
struck them as funny. They were both so glad to 
get back to college, so glad to see each other, that 
they were almost hysterical. And when they left 
Surrey 19 arm in arm on their way to the Nu Delta 
house “to see the brothers,” their cup of bliss was 
full to the brim and running over. 

“Criminy, the ol’ campus sure does look good,” 
said Hugh ecstatically. “Watch the frosh work.” 
He was suddenly reminded of something. “Hey, 
freshman I” he yelled at a big, red-faced youngster 
who was to be full-back on the football team a year 
hence. 

The freshman came on a run. “Yes—yes, sir?” 

“Here’s a check. Take it down to the station 
and get my suit-case. Take it up to Surrey Nine¬ 
teen and put it in the room. The door’s open. 
Hurry up now; I’m going to want it pretty soon. 

“Yes, sir. I ’ll hurry.” And the freshman was* 
off running. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


146 

Hugh and Carl grinned at each other, linked 
arms again, and continued their way across the 
campus. When they entered the Nu Delta house 
a shout went up. “Hi, Carl! Hi, Hugh! Glad 
to see you back. Didya have a good summer? 
Put it there, ol’ kid”—and they shook hands, grip¬ 
ping each other’s forearm at the same time. 

Hugh tried hard to become a typical sophomore 
and failed rather badly. He retained much of the 
shyness and diffidence that gives the freshman his 
charm, and he did not succeed very well in acquiring 
the swagger, the cocky, patronizing manner, the 
raucous self-assurance that characterize the true 
sophomore. 

He found, too, that he could n’t lord it over the 
freshmen very well, and at times he was nothing 
less than a renegade to his class. He was con¬ 
stantly giving freshmen correct information about 
their problems, and during the dormitory initiations 
he more than once publicly objected to some 
“stunt” that seemed to him needlessly insulting to 
the initiates. Because he was an athlete, his opin¬ 
ion was respected, and quite unintentionally he won 
several good friends among the freshmen. His 
objections had all been spontaneous, and he was 
rather sorry about them afterward. He felt that 
he must be soft, that he ought to be able to stand 
anything that anybody else could. Further, he felt 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


147 

that there must be something wrong with his sense 
of humor; things that struck lots of his classmates 
as funny seemed merely disgusting to him. 

He wanted very much to tell Carl about Janet 
but for several weeks the opportunity did not pre 
sent itself. There was too much excitement about 
the campus; the mood of the place was all wrong, 
and Hugh, although he did n’t know it, was very 
sensitive to moods and atmosphere. 

Finally one night in October he and Carl were 
seated in their big chairs before the fire. They had 
been walking that afternoon, and Hugh had been 
swept outside of himself by the brilliance of the 
autumn foliage. He was emotionally and physi¬ 
cally tired, feeling that vague, melancholy happiness 
that comes after an intense but pleasant experience. 
Carl leaned back to the center-table and switched 
off the study light. 

“Pleasanter with just the firelight,” he said 
quietly. He, too, had something that he wanted 
to tell, and the less light the better. 

Hugh sighed and relaxed comfortably into his 
chair. The shadows were thick and mysterious 
behind them; the flames leaped merrily in the fire¬ 
place. Doth boys sat silent, staring into the fire. 
Finally Hugh spoke. 

“I met a girl this summer, Carl,” he said softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Little peach. Awf’lly pretty. Dainty, 


148 THE PLASTIC AGE 

you know. Awf’lly dainty—like a little kid. You 
know.” 

Carl had slumped down into his chair. He was 
smoking his pipe and staring pensively at the flames. 
“Un-huh. Go on.” 

“Well, I fell pretty hard. She was so—er, 
dainty. She always reminded me of a little girl 
playing lady. She had golden hair and blue eyes, 
the bluest eyes I ’ve ever seen; oh, lots bluer than 
mine, lots bluer. And little bits of hands and 
feet.” 

Carl continued to puff his pipe and stare at the 
fire. “Pet?” he asked dreamily. 

Un-huh. Yeah, she petted—but she was kinda 
funny—cold, you know, and kinda scared. Gee, 
Carl, I was crazy about her. I—I even wrote her 
a poem. I guess it was n’t very good, but I don’t 
think she knew what it was about. I guess I’m 
off her now, though. She’s too cold. I don’t 
want a girl to fall over me—my last girl did that— 
hut, golly, Carl, Janet didn’t understand. I don’t 
think she knows anything about love.” 

Some of ’em don’t,” Carl remarked philosophi¬ 
cally, slipping deeper into his chair. “They iust 
pet.” 

“That’s the way she was. She liked me to hold 
her and kiss her just as long as I acted like a big 
brother, but, criminy, when I felt that soft little 
thing in my arms, I didn’t feel like a big brother; 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


149 

I loved her like hell. . . . She was awfully sweet/’ 
he added regretfully; “I wish she was n’t so cold.” 

“Hard luck, old man,” said Carl consolingly, 
“hard luck. Guess you picked an iceberg.” 

For a few minutes the room was quiet except for 
the crackling of the fire, which was beginning to 
burn low. The shadows were creeping up on the 
boys; the flames were less merry. 

Carl took his pipe out of his mouth and drawled 
softly, “I had better luck.” 

Hugh pricked up his ears. “You have n’t really 
fallen in love, have you?” he demanded eagerly. 
Carl had often said that he would never fall in love, 
that he was “too wise” to women. 

“No, I didn’t fall in love; nothing like that. I 
met a bunch of janes down at Bar Harbor. Some 
of them I’d known before, but I met some new 
ones, too. Had a damn good time. Some of 
those janes certainly could neck, and they were 
ready for it any time. Gee, if the old lady had n’t 
been there, I’d ’a’ been potted about half the time. 
A.s it was, I drank enough gin and Scotch to float 
a battle-ship. Well, the old lady had to go to 
Mew York on account of some business; so I went 
down to Christmas Cove to visit some people I 
imow there. Christmas Cove’s a nice place; not 
jo high-hat as Bar Harbor, but still it’s a nice 
Dlace.” 

Hugh felt that Carl was leaving the main track, 


150 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


and he hastened to shunt him back. “Sure,” he 
said in cheerful agreement; “sure it is—but what 
happened?” 

“What happened? Oh—oh, yes!” Carl brought 
himself back to the present with an obvious effort. 
“Sure, I ’ll tell you what happened. Well, there 
was a girl there named Elaine Marston. She 
was n’t staying with the folks I was, but they knew 
her, so I saw a lot of her. See?” 

“Sure.” Hugh wished he would hurry up. 
Carl did n’t usually wander all over when telling a 
story. This must be something special. 

“Well, I saw lots of her. Lots. Pretty girl, 
nice family and everything, but she liked her booze 
and she liked to pet. Awful hot kid. Well, one 
night we went to a dance, and between dances we 
had a lot of gin I had brought with me. Good; 
stuff, too. I bought it off a guy who brought it! 
down from Canada himself. Where was I? Oh, 
yes, at the dance. We both got pie-eyed; I was 
all liquored up, and I guess she was, too. After; 
the dance was over, I dared her to walk over tc 
South Bristol—that’s just across the island, yoi 
know—and then walk back again. Well, we 
had n’t gone far when we decided to sit down. We 
were both kinda dizzy from the gin. You have 
to go through the woods, you know, and it’s dark 
as hell in there at night. ... We sat down among 
some ferns and I began to pet her. Don’t know 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


1 5 i 

why—just did. . . . Oh, hell! what’s the use of 
going into details? You can guess what happened.” 

Hugh sat suddenly erect. “You did n’t—” 

Carl stood up and stretched. “Yeah,” he 
yawned, “I did it. Lots of times afterwards.” 

Hugh was dazed. He did n’t know what to 
think. For an instant he was shocked, and then 
he was envious. “Wonder if Janet would have 
gone the whole way,” flitted across his mind. He 
instantly dismissed the question; he felt that it 
wasn’t fair to Janet. But Carl? Gosh! 

Carl yawned again. “Great stuff,” he said non¬ 
chalantly. “Sleepy as hell. Guess I ’ll hit the 
hay.” He eyed Hugh suspiciously. “You are n’t 
shocked, are you? You don’t think I’m a moral 
leper or anything like that?” He attempted to be 
light but was n’t altogether successful. 

“Of course not.” Hugh denied the suggestion 
vehemently, and yet down in his heart he felt a 
keen disappointment. He hardly knew why he was 
disappointed, but he was. “Going to bed?” he 
asked as casually as he could. 

“Yeah. Good night.” 

“Good night, old man.” 

Each boy went to his own bedroom, Hugh to go 
to bed and think Carl’s story over. It thrilled him, 
and he envied Carl, and yet—and ye* he wished 
Carl had n’t done it. It made him and Carl dif¬ 
ferent—sorta not the same; no that wasn’t it. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


152 

He did n’t know just what the trouble was, but 
there was a sharp sting of disillusionment that hurt. 
He would have been more confused had he known 
what was happening in Carl’s room. 

Carl had walked into his own bedroom, lighted 
the light, and closed the door. Then he walked to 
the dresser and stared at himself in the mirror, 
stared a long time as if the face were somehow new 
to him. 

There was a picture of the “old lady” on the 
dresser. It caught his eye, and he flinched. It 
seemed to look at him reproachfully. He thought 
of his mother, and he thought of how he had bluffed 
Hugh. He had cried after his first experience with 
the girl. 

He looked again into the mirror. “You god¬ 
damn hypocrite,” he said softly; “you goddamr 
hypocrite.” His lip curled in contempt at his! 
image. 

He began to undress rapidly. The eyes of the 
“old lady” in the picture seemed to follow hirr 
around the room. The thought of her hauntec 
him. Desperately, he switched out the light. 

Once in bed, he rolled over on his stomach anc 
buried his face in the pillow. “God!” he whis 
pered. “God!” 




CHAPTER XV< 


S ANFORD defeated Raleigh this year in foot¬ 
ball, and for a time the college was wild with 
excitement and delight. Most of the free 
lumber in Haydensville was burned in a triumphant 
bonfire, and many of the undergraduates celebrated 
so joyously with their winnings that they looked 
sadly bedraggled for several days afterward. 

The victory was discussed until the boys were 
thoroughly sick of it, and then they settled down 
to a normal life, studying; playing pool, billiards, 
and cards; going to the movies, reading a little, and 
holding bull sessions. 

Hugh attended many bull sessions. Some of 
them he found interesting, but many of them were 
merely orgies of filthy talk, the participants vying 
with one another in telling the dirtiest stories; and 
although Hugh was not a prig, he was offended by 
a dirty story that was told merely for the sake of 
its dirt. Pudge Jamieson’s stories were smutty, 
but they were funny, too, and he could send Hugh 
into paroxysms of laughter any time that he chose. 

One night in late November Plugh was in 
Gordon Ross’s room in Surrey along with four 
i53 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


1154 

others. Ross was a senior, a quiet man with gray 
eyes, rather heavy features, and soft brown hair. 
He was considerably older than the others, having 
worked for several years before he came to college. 
He listened to the stories that were being told, 
occasionally smiled, but more often studied the 
group curiously. 

The talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh 
was about to leave in disgust when the discussion 
suddenly turned serious. 

“Do you know,” said George Winsor abruptly, 
“I wonder why we hold these smut sessions. I sit 
here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of 
myself half the time. And this is n’t the only smut 
session that’s going on right now. I bet there’s 
thirty at least going on around the campus. Why 
are we always getting into little groups and cover¬ 
ing each other with filth? College men are sup¬ 
posed to be gentlemen, and we talk like a lot of 
gutter-pups.” Winsor was a sophomore, a fine 
student, and thoroughly popular. He looked like 
an unkempt Airedale. His clothes, even wher 
new, never looked neat, and his rusty hair refuset 
to lie flat. He had an eager, quick way about him 
and his brown eyes were very bright and lively. 

“Yes, that’s what I want to know,” Hugli 
chimed in, forgetting all about his desire to leave 
“I’m always sitting in on bull sessions, but ] 
think they ’re rotten. About every so often I maki 


THE PLASTIC AGE 155 

up my mind that I won’t take part in another one, 
and before I know it somebody’s telling me the 
latest and I’m listening for all I’m worth.” 

“That’s easy,” Melville Burbank answered. 
He was a junior with a brilliant record. “You ’re 
nerely sublimating your sex instincts, that’s all. 
[f you played around with cheap women more, you 
svould n’t be thinking about sex all the time and 
alking smut.” 

‘"You’re crazy!” It was Keith Nutter talking, 
l sophomore notorious for his dissipations. “Hell, 

’’m out with bags all the time, as you damn well 
mow. My sex instincts don’t need sublimating, or 
vhatever you call it, and I talk smut as much as 
anybody—more than some.” 

“Perhaps you ’re just naturally dirty,” Burbank 
aid, his voice edged with sarcasm. He didn’t 
Le Nutter. The boy seemed gross to him. 

“Go to hell! I’m no dirtier than anybody else.” 
Gutter was not only angry but frankly hurt. “The 
nly difference between me and the rest of you guys 
» that I admit that I chase around with rats, and 
be rest of you do it on the sly. I’m no hypocrite.” 

“Oh, come off, Keith,” Gordon Ross said quietly; 
you ’re not fair. I admit that lots of the fellows 
re chasing around with rats on the sly, but lots of 
lem are n’t, too. More fellows go straight around 
us college than you think. I know a number that 
ave never touched a woman. They just hate to 


156 THE PLASTIC AGE 

admit they’re pure, that’s all; and you take theii 
bluff for the real thing.” 

“You’ve got to show me.” Nutter was almos 
sullen. “I admit that I’m no angel, but I don’ 
believe that I’m a damn bit worse than the aver 
age. Besides, what’s wrong about it, anyhow 
It’s just as natural as eating, and I don’t see when 
there is anything worse about it.” 

George Winsor stood up and leaned against th 
mantel. He ran his fingers through his hair unti 
it stood grotesquely on end. “Oh, that’s the ol 
argument. I’ve heard it debated in a hundred bu 
sessions. One fellow says it’s all wrong, and ar 
other fellow says it’s all right, and you never ge 
anywhere. I want somebody to tell me what 
wrong about it and what’s right. God knows yo 
don’t find out in your classes. They have Dc 
Conners give those smut talks to us in our fresl 
man year, and a devil of a lot of good they do. 
bunch of fellows faint and have to be lugged ou 
and the Doc gives you some sickening details aboi 
venereal diseases, and that’s as far as you gd 
Now, I’m all messed up about this sex business, ar 
I ’ll admit that I’m thinking about it all the tim 
too. Some fellows say it’s all right to have 
woman, and some fellows say it’s all wrong, b 
I notice none of them have any use for a worn; 
who is n’t straight.” 

All of the boys were sitting in easy-chairs exce: 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


i57 


>onald Ferguson, who was lying on the couch and 
stening in silence. He was a handsome youth 
ith Scotch blue eyes and sandy hair. Women 
ere instantly attracted by his good looks, splendid 
hysique, slow smile, and quiet drawl. 

He spoke for the first time. “The old single- 
andard fight,” he said, propping his head on his 
and. “I don’t see any sense in scrapping about 
lat any more. We ’ve got a single standard now. 
he girls go just as fast as the fellows.” 

“Oh, that’s not so,” Hugh exclaimed. “Girls 
on’t go as far as fellows.” 

Ferguson smiled pleasantly at Hugh and drawled; 
Shut up, innocent; you don’t know anything about 
. I tell you the old double standard has gone all 
) hell.” 

“You ’re exaggerating, Don, just to get Hugh 
ccited,” Ross said in his quiet way. “There are 
lenty of decent girls. Just because a lot of them 
zt on all occasions is n’t any reason to say that 
ley are n’t straight. I’m older than you fellows, 
ad I guess I’ve had a lot more experience than 
lost of you. I’ve had to make my own way since 
was a kid, and I’ve bumped up against a lot of 
)ugh customers. I worked in a lumber camp for 
year, and after you’ve been with a gang like that 
}r a while, you ’ll understand the difference be- 
veen them and college fellows. Those boys are 
id eggs. They just have n’t any morals* that’s 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


158 

all. They turn into beasts every pay night; an< 
bad as some of our college parties are, they are n’ 
a circumstance to a lumber town on pay night.” 

“That’s no argument,” George Winsor said ex 
citedly, taking his pipe out of his mouth and gesticu 
lating with it. “Just because a lumberjack is ; 
beast is no reason that a college man is all right be 
cause he’s less of a beast. I tell you I get sick o 
my own thoughts, and I get sick of the college whei 
I hear about some things that are done. I keej 
straight, and I don’t know why I do. I despis* 
about half the fellows that chase around with rats 
and sometimes I envy them like hell. Well, what ’ 
the sense in me keeping straight? What’s th 
sense in anybody keeping straight? Fellows tha 
don’t seem to get along just as well as those tha 
do. What do you think, Mel? You’ve bee] 
reading Havelock Ellis and a lot of ducks lik 
that.” 

Burbank tossed a cigarette butt into the fire an* 
gazed into the flames for a minute before speaking 
his homely face serious and troubled. “I don’ 
know what to think,” he replied slowly. “Ell; 
tells about some things that make you fairly sick 
So does Forel. The human race can be awful! 
rotten. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I ’r 
all mixed up. Sometimes life just does n’t seer 
worth living to me, what with the filth and the slum* 
and the greed and everything. I’ve been taking 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


i 59 


)urse in sociology, and some of the things that 
rof Davis has been telling us make you wonder 
hy the world goes on at all. Some poet has a 
ne somewhere about man’s inhumanity to man, 
nd I find myself thinking about that all the time, 
'he world’s rotten as hell, and I don’t see how 
lything can be done about it. I don’t think some- 
mes that it’s worth living in. I can understand 
hy people commit suicide.” He spoke softly, gaz- 
;g into the fire. 

Hugh had given him rapt attention. Suddenly 
e spoke up, forgetting his resolve not to say any- 
ling more after Ferguson had called him “inno- 
:nt.” “I think you ’re wrong, Mel,” he said posi- 
vely. “I was reading a book the other day called 
^avengro.’ It’s all about Gipsies. Well, this 
dlow Lavengro was all busted up and depressed; 
z ’s just about made up his mind to commit suicide 
hen he meets a friend of his, a Gipsy. He tells 
le Gipsy that he’s going to bump himself off, that 
e does n’t see anything in life to live for. Then 
le Gipsy answers him. Gee, it hit me square in 
?e eye, and I memorized it on the spot. I think 
can say it. He says: ‘There’s night and day, 
rother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, 
rother, all sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on 
ie heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would 
ish to die?’ I think that’s beautiful,” he added 
mply, “and I think it’s true, too.” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


1 60 

“Good for you, Hugh,” Ross said quietly. 

Hugh blushed with pleasure, but he was tak 
back by Nutter’s vigorous rejoinder. “Bunk!” 
exclaimed. “Hooey! The sun, moon, and stai 
and all that stuff sounds pretty, but it is n’t lii 
Life’s earning a living, and working like hell, ai 
women, and pleasure. The ‘Rubaiyat’ ’s the on 
poem—if you ’re going to quote poetry. That 
the only poem I ever saw that had any sense to 

“Come, Beloved, fill the Cup that clears 
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears. 
To-morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be 
Myself with Yesterday’s seven thousand Years. 

You bet. You never can tell when you ’re goi 
to be bumped off, and so you might just as well ha 
a good time while you can. You damn well dor 
know what’s coming after you kick the bucket.” 

“Good stuff, the ‘Rubaiyat,’ ” said Ferguson li 
ily. He was lying on his back staring at the ceilir 
“I bet I’ve read it a hundred times. When th 
turn down an empty glass for me, it’s going to 
empty . I don’t know what I ’m here for or whe 
I ’m going or why. ‘Into this world and why njj 
knowing,’ and so on. My folks sent me to Sundr 
school and brought me up to be a good little be 
I believed just about everything they told me un 
I came to college. Now I know they told meal 
of damned lies. And I’ve talked with a lot of f 


THE PLASTIC AGE 161 

dws who’ve had the same experience. . . . Any- 
ody got a butt?” 

Burbank, who was nearest to him, passed him a 
ackage of cigarettes. Ferguson extracted one, 
ighted it, blew smoke at the ceiling, and then 
uietly continued, drawling lazily: “Most fellows 
lon’t tell their folks anything, and there ’s no rea- 
on why they should, either. Our folks lie to us 
rom the time we are babies. They lie to us about 
»irth and God and life. My folks never told me 
he truth about anything. When I came to college 
was n’t very innocent about women, but I was 
bout everything else. I believed that God made 
he world in six days the way the Bible says, and 
hat some day the world was coming to an end 
md that we’d all be pulled up to heaven where 
Christ would give us the once-over. Then he ’d 
hip some of us to hell and give the good ones 
larps. Well, since I Ve found out that all that’s 
looey I don’t believe in much of anything.” 

“I suppose you are talking about evolution,’ 
said Ross. “Well, Prof Humbert says that evolu- 
ions has n’t anything to do with the Bible— He 
;ays that science is science and that religion is re- 
igion and that the two don’t mix. He says that 
le holds by evolution but that that does n’t make 
Christ’s philosophy bad.” 

“No,” Burbank agreed, “it does n’t make it bad^ 
)ut that is n’t the point. I’ve read the Bible,, 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


162 

which I bet is more than the rest of you can say, 
and I’ve read the Sermon on the Mount a dozen 
times. It ’s darn good sense, but what good does 
it do ? The world will never practise Christ’s phi¬ 
losophy. The Bible says, ‘Man is born to trouble as 
the sparks fly upward,* and, believe me, that *s 
damn true. If people would be pure and good, 
then Christ’s philosophy would work, but they 
aren’t pure and good; they aren’t made pure and 
good, they ’re made selfish and bad: they ’re made, 
mind you, made full of evil and lust. I tell you it’s 
all wrong. I’ve been reading and reading, and the 
more I read the more I’m convinced that we ’re all 
rotten and .that if there is a god he made us 
rotten.” 

“You ’re wrong!” They all turned toward Win* 
sor, who was still standing by the fireplace; even 
Ferguson rolled over and looked at the excited 
boy. “You’re wrong,” he repeated, “all wrong, 
I admit all that’s been said about parents. They 
do cheat us just as Don said. I never tell my folks 
anything that really matters, and I don’t know any' 
other fellows that do, either. I suppose there are 
some, but I don’t know them. And I admit that 
there is sin and vice, but I don’t admit that Christ’s! 
philosophy is useless. I’ve read the Sermon on 
the Mount, too. That’s about all of the Bible that 
I have read, but I’ve read that; and I tell you 
you’re all wrong. There is enough good in man 


THE PLASTIC AGE 163 

to make that philosophy practical. Why, there is 
more kindness and goodness around than we know 
about. We see the evil, and we know we have lusts 
and—and things, but we do good, too. And Hugh 
was right when he talked a while ago about the 
beauty in the world. There’s lots of it, lots and 
lots of it. There ’s beautiful poetry and beautiful 
music and beautiful scenery; and there are people 
who appreciate all of it. I tell you that in spite of 
everything life is worth living. And I believe in 
Christ’s philosophy, too. I don’t know whether 
He is the son of God 6r not—I think that He must 
be—but that does n’t make any difference. Look 
at the wonderful influence He has had.” 

“Rot,” said (Burbank calmly, “absolute rot. 
There has never been a good deed done in His 
name; just the Inquisition and the what-do-you-call- 
’ems in Russia* Oh, yes, pogroms—and wars and 
robbing people. Christianity is just a name; there 
is n’t any such thing. And most of the professional 
Christians that I’ve seen are damn fools. I tell 
you, George, it’s all wrong. We ’re all in the dark, 
and I don’t believe the profs know any more about 
it than we do.” 

“Oh, yes, they do,” Hugh exclaimed; “they must. 
Think of all the studying they’ve done.” 

“Bah.” Burbank was contemptuous. “They’ve 
read a lot of books, that’s all. Most of them 
never had an idea in their lives. Oh, I know that 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


164 

some of them think; if they did n’t, I’d leave col¬ 
lege to-morrow. It’s men like Davis and Maxwell 
and Henley and Jimpson who keep me here. But 
most of the profs can’t do anything more than spout 
a few facts that they’ve got out of books. No, 
they don’t know any more about it than we do. 
We don’t know why we ’re here or where we ’re 
going or what we ought to do while we are here. 
And we get into groups and tell smutty stories and 
talk about women and religion, and we don’t know 
any more than when we started. Think of all the 
talk that goes on around this college about sex. 
There’s no end to it. Some of the fellows say pos¬ 
itively there’s no sense in staying straight; and a 
few, damn few, admit that they think a fellow 
ought to leave women alone, but most of them are 
in a muddle.” 

He rose and stretched. “I’ve got to be going— 
a philosophy quiz to-morrow.” He smiled. “I 
don’t agree with Nutter, and I don’t agree with 
George, and I don’t agree with you, Don; and the 
worst of it is that I don’t agree with myself. You 
fellows can bull about this some more if you want 
to; I’ve got to study.” 

“No, they can’t,” said Ross. “Not here, any¬ 
way. I’ve got to study, too. The whole of you ’ll 
have to get out.” 

The boys rose and stretched. Ferguson rolled 
lazily off the couch. “Well,” he said with a yawn, 




THE PLASTIC AGE i6 5> 

“this has been very edifying. I’ve heard it all be¬ 
fore in a hundred bull sessions, and I suppose I ’ll 
hear it all again. I don’t know why I’ve hung 
around. There 7 s a little dame that I’ve got to 
write a letter to, and, believe me, she’s a damn 
sight more interesting than all your bull.” He 
strolled out of the door, drawling a slow “good 
night” over his shoulder. 

Hugh went to his room and thought over the talk. 
He was miserably confused. Like Ferguson he 
had believed everything that his father and mother 
—and the minister—had told him, and he found 
himself beginning to discard their ideas. There 
did n’t seem to be any ideas to put in the place of 
those he discarded. Until Carl’s recent confidence 
he had believed firmly in chastity, but he discovered, 
once the first shock had worn off, that he liked Carl 
the unchaste just as much as he had Carl the chaste. 
Carl s-eemed neither better nor worse for his 
experience. 

He was lashed by desire; he was burning with 
curiosity—and yet, and yet something held him 
back. Something—he hardly knew what it was— 
made him avoid any woman who had a reputation 
for moral laxity. He shrank from such a woman 
—‘and desired her so intensely that he was ashamed. 

Life was suddenly becoming very complicated, 
more complicated, it seemed, every day. With 
?ther undergraduates he discussed women and reli- 


166 THE PLASTIC AGE 

gion endlessly, but he never reached any satisfa< 
tory conclusions. He wished that he knew som 
professor that he could talk to. Surely some c 
them must know the answers to his riddles. . . . 



CHAPTER XVI 


H UGH was n’t troubled only by religion 
and sex; the whole college was disturbing 
his peace of mind: all of his illusions 
rere being ruthlessly shattered. He had supposed 
hat all professors were wise men, that their 
nowledge was almost limitless, and he was finding 
hat many of the undergraduates were frankly con- 
ontemptuous of the majority of their teachers and 
hat he himself was finding inspiration from only a 
ew of them. He went to his classes because he 
elt that he had to, but in most of them he was con- 
used or bored. He learned more in the bull 
sssions than he did in the class-room, and men like 
loss and Burbank were teaching him more than his 
istructors. 

Further, Nu Delta was proving a keen dis- 
ppointment. More and more he found himself 
linking of Malcolm Graham’s talk to him during 
le rushing season of his freshman year. He often 
wished that Graham were still in college so that 
e could go to him for advice. The fraternity was 
ot the brotherhood that he had dreamed about; 
: was composed of several cliques warring with 
ich other, never coalescing into a single group 
167 


i68 THE PLASTIC AGE 

except to contest the control of a student activity 
with some other fraternity. There were a few 
“brothers” that Hugh liked, but most of them were 
not his kind at alL Many of them were athletes 
taken into the fraternity because they were athletes 
and for no other reason, and although Hugh liked 
two of the athletes—they were really splendid fel¬ 
lows—he was forced to admit that three of them 
were hardly better than thugs, cheap muckers with 
fine bodies. Then there were the snobs, usually 
prep school men with more money than they could 
handle wisely, utterly contemptuous of any man not 
belonging to a fraternity or of one belonging to any 
of the lesser fraternities. These were the “smooth 
boys,” interested primarily in clothes and “parties,” 
passing their courses by the aid of tutors or fra¬ 
ternity brothers who happened to study. 

Hugh felt that he ought to like all of his fra¬ 
ternity brothers, but, try as he would, he disliked 
the majority of them. Early in his sophomore 
year be knew that he ought to have “gone” Delta 
Sigma Delta, that that fraternity contained a group 
of men whom he liked and respected, most of them 
at least. They were n’t prominent in student ac¬ 
tivities, but they were earnest lads as a whole, trying 
hard to get something out of college. 

The Nu Delta meetings every Monday nighi 
were a revelation to him. The brothers wen 
openly bored; they paid little or no attention to th< 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


169 

business before them. The president was con¬ 
stantly calling for order and not getting it. Dur¬ 
ing the rushing season in the second term, interest 
picked up. Freshmen were being discussed. 
Four questions were inevitably asked. Did the 
freshman have money? Was he an athlete? Had 
he gone to a prep school? What was his family 
like ? 

Hugh had been very much attracted by a lad 
named Parker. He was a charming youngster with 
a good mind and beautiful manners. In general, 
only bad manners were au fait at Sanford; so 
Parker was naturally conspicuous. Hugh proposed 
his name for membership to Nu Delta. 

“He’s a harp,” said a brother scornfully. “At 
any rate, he ’s a Catholic.” 

That settled that. Only Protestants were 
eligible to Nu Delta at Sanford, although the fra¬ 
ternity had no national rule prohibiting members 
of other religions. 

The snobbery of the fraternity cut Hugh deeply. 
He was a friendly lad who had never been taught 
prejudice. He even made friends with a Jewish 
youth and was severely censured by three fraternity 
brothers for that friendship. He was especially 
taken to task by Bob Tucker, the president. 

“Look here, Hugh,” Tucker said sternly, 
“you Ve got to draw the line somewhere. I suppose 
Einstein is a good fellow and all that, but you Ve 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


170 

been running around with him a lot. You ’ve even 
brought him here several times. Of course, you 
can have anybody in your room you want, but we 
don’t want any Jews around the house. I don’t see 
why you had to pick him up, anyway. There ’s 
plenty of Christians in college.*’ 

“He’s a first-class fellow,” Hugh replied stub¬ 
bornly, “and I like him. I don’t see why we have 
to be so high-hat about Jews and Catholics. Most 
of the fraternities take, in Catholics, and the Phi 
Thetas take in Jews; at least, they’ve got two. 
They bid Einstein, but he turned them down; his 
folks don’t want him to join a fraternity. And 
Chubby Elson told me that the Theta Kappas 
wanted him awfully, but they have a local rule 
against Jews.” 

“That does n’t make any difference,” Tucker said 
sharply. “We don’t want him around here. Be¬ 
cause some of the fraternities are so damn broad¬ 
minded is n’t any reason that we ought to be. I 
don’t see that their broad-mindedness is getting 
them anything. We rate about ten times as much 
as the Phi Thetas or the Theta Kappas, and the 
reason we do is that we are so much more exclusive.” 

Hugh wanted to mention the three Nu Delta 
thugs, but he wisely restrained himself. “All 
right,” he said stubbornly, “I won’t bring Einstein 
around here again, and I won’t bring Parker either, 
fa»* I ’ll see just as much of them as I want to. M\ 



THE PLASTIC AGE 171 

friends are my friends, and if the fraternity 
doesn’t like them, it can leave them alone. I 
pledged loyalty to the fraternity, but I ’ll be damned 
if I pledged my life to it” He got up and started 
for the door, his blue eyes dark with anger. “I 
hate snobs,” he said viciously, and departed. 

After rushing season was over, he rarely entered 
:hat fraternity house, chumming mostly with Carl, 
but finding friends in other fraternities or among 
ion-fraternity men. He was depressed and gloomy, 
ilthough his grades for the first term had been 
•espectable. Nothing seemed very much worth 
vhile, not even making his letter on the track. He 
vas gradually taking to cigarettes, and he had even 
lad a nip or two out of a flask that Carl had 
>rought to the room. He had read the 
‘Rubaiyat,” and it made a great impression on him. 
de and Carl often discussed the poem, and more 
md more Hugh was beginning to believe in Omar’s 
>hilosophy. At least, he could n’t answer the argu- 
nents presented in Fitzgerald’s beautiful quatrains, 
fhe poem both depressed and thrilled him. After 
eading it, he felt desperate—and ready for any- 
hing, convinced that the only wise course was to 
ake the cash and let the credit go. He was much 
00 young to hear the rumble of the distant drum, 
ometimes he was sure that there was n’t a drum, 
nyway. 

He was particularly blue one afternoon when 


I 7 2 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Carl rushed into the room and urged him to go to 
Hastings, a town five miles from Haydensville. . 

“Jim Pearson ’s outside with his car,” Carl said 
excitedly, “and he 11 take us down. He’s got to 
come right back—he *s only going for some booze— 
but we need n’t come back if we don’t want to. 
We 11 have a drink and give Hastings the once¬ 
over. How’s to come along?” 

“All right,” Hugh agreed indifferently and began 
to pull on his baa-baa coat. U I’m with you. A shot 
of gin might jazz me up a little.” 

Once in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private 
residence at the edge of the town. The boys got 
out of the car and filed around to the back door, 
which was opened to their knock by a young man 
with a hatchet face and hard blue eyes. 

“Hello, Mr. Pearson,” he said with an effort to 
be pleasant. “Want some gin?” 

“Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete—if you have it 
111 take two quarts of Scotch and one of gin.” 

“All right.” Pete led the way down into the 
cellar, switching on an electric light when he reached 
the foot of the stairs. There was a small bar ir; 
the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table ot 
two, and dozens of small boxes stacked against th« 
wall. 

It was Hugh’s first visit to a bootlegger’s den 
and he was keenly interested. He had a high-bal 
along with Carl and Pearson; then took anothei 

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THE PLASTIC AGE 


*73 

when Carl offered to stand treat. Pearson bought 
his three quarts of liquor, paid Pete, and departed 
alone, Carl and Hugh having decided to have 
another drink or two before they returned to 
Haydensville. After a second high-ball Hugh did 
not care how many he drank and was rather peevish 
when Carl insisted that he stop with a third. Pete 
charged them eight dollars for their drinks, which 
they cheerfully paid, and then warily climbed the 
stairs and stumbled out into the cold winter air. 

“Brr,” said Carl, buttoning his coat up to his 
chin; “it’s cold as hell.” 

“So ’t is,” Hugh agreed; “so ’t is. So ’t is. 
That’s pretty. So’t is, so’t is, so’t is. Is n’t that 
pretty, Carl?” 

“Awful pretty. Say it again.” 

“So ’t is. So ’t ish. So—so—so. What wush 
it, Carl?” 

“So’t is.” 

“Oh, yes. So ’t ish.” 

They walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the 
business section of Hastings, pausing now and then 
to laugh joyously over something that appealed to 
them as inordinately funny. Once it was a tree, 
another time a farmer in a sleigh, and a third time 
a Ford. Hugh insisted, after laughing until he 
wept, that the Ford was the “funniest goddamned 
thing” he’d ever seen. Carl agreed with him. 

They were both pretty thoroughly drunk by the 


i 7 4 THE PLASTIC AGE 

time they reached the center of the town, where 
they intended getting the bus back to Haydensville. 
Two girls passed them and smiled invitingly. 

“Oh, what peaches,” Carl exclaimed. 

“Jush—jush—jush swell,” Hugh said with great 
positiveness, hanging on to Carl’s arm. “They ’re 
the shwellest Janes I’ve ever sheen.” 

The girls, who were a few feet ahead, turned and 
smiled again. 

“Let’s pick them up,” Carl whispered loudly. 

“Shure,” and Hugh started unsteadily to in¬ 
crease his pace. 

The girls were professional prostitutes who 
visited Hastings twice a year “to get the Sanford 
trade.” They were crude specimens, revealing 
their profession to the most casual observer. If 
Hugh had been sober they would have sickened 
him, but he wasn’t sober; he was joyously drunk 
and the girls looked very desirable. 

“Hello, girls,” Carl said expansively, taking hold 
of one girl’s arm. “Busy?” 

“Bish-bishy?” Hugh repeated valiantly. 

The older “girl” smiled, revealing five gold 
teeth. 

“Of course not,” she replied in a hard, flat voice, 
“Not too busy for you boys, anyway. Come along 
with us and we ’ll make this a big afternoon.” 

“Sure,” Carl agreed. 

“Sh-shure,” Hugh stuttered. He reached for 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


i 75 

ward to take the arm of the girl who had spoken, 
but at the same instant some one caught him by the 
wrist and held him still. 

Harry Slade, the star football player and this 
pear’s captain, happened to be in Hastings; he was, 
in fact, seeking these very girls. He had intended 
to pass on when he saw two men with them, but as 
soon as he recognized Hugh he paused and then 
impulsively strode forward. 

“Here, Carver,” he said sharply. “What are 
pou doing?” 

“None—none of you da-damn business,” Hugh 
replied angrily, trying to shake his wrist free. 
‘Leggo of me or—or I ’ll—I ’ll—” 

“You won’t do anything,” Slade interrupted. 
! ‘You ’re going home with me.” 

“Who in hell are you?” one of the girls asked 
viciously. “Mind your own damn business.” 

“You mind yours, sister, or you ’ll get into a peck 
of trouble. This kid ’s going with me—and don’t 
forget that. Come on, Carver.” 

Hugh was still vainly trying to twist his wrist free 
tnd was muttering, “Leggo, leggo o’ me.” 

Slade jerked him across the sidewalk. Carl fol¬ 
lowed expostulating. “Get the hell out of here, 
Peters,” Slade said angrily, “or I ’ll knock your 
fool block off. You chase off with those rats if you 
want to, but you leave Carver with me if you know 
what’s good for you.” He shoved Carl away, and 


176 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Carl was sober enough to know that Slade mean 
what he said. Each girl took him by an arm, an( 
he walked off down the street between them, almos 
instantly forgetting Hugh. 

Fortunately the street was nearly deserted, am 
no one had witnessed the little drama. Hugh be 
gan to sob drunkenly. Slade grasped his shoulder 
and shook him until his head waggled. “Nov 
shut up!” Slade commanded sharply. He too 
Hugh by the arm and started down the street wit 
him, Hugh still muttering, “Leggo, leggo o’ me.” 

Slade walked him the whole five miles back t 
Haydensville, and before they were half way horn 
Hugh’s head began to clear. For a time he felt 
little sick, but the nausea passed, and when the 
reached the campus he was quite sober. Not 
word was spoken until Hugh unlocked the door t 
Surrey 19. Then Slade said: “Go wash yoi 
face and head in cold water. Souse yourself goc 
and then come back; I want to have a talk will 
you.” 

Hugh obeyed orders, but with poor grace. B 
was angry and confused, angry because his liber 
had been interfered with, and confused becau 
Slade had never paid more than passing attenth 
to him—and for a year and a half Slade had be* 
his god. 

Slade was one of those superb natural athlet 
who make history for many colleges. He was bi 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


177 


>owerfully built, and moved as easily as a dancer. 
Tls features were good enough, but his brown eyes 
vere dull and his jaw heavy rather than strong. 
3 ugh had often heard that Slade dissipated 
violently, but he did not believe the rumors; he 
vas positive that Slade could not be the athlete he 
yas if he dissipated. He had been thrilled every 
:ime Slade had spoken to him—the big man of the 
:ollege, the one Sanford man who had ever made 
\11 American, as Slade had this year. 

When he returned to his room from the bath¬ 
room, Slade was sitting in a big chair smoking a 
rigarette. Hugh walked into his bedroom, combed 
lis dripping hair, and then came into the study, still 
ingry but feeling a little sheepish and very curious. 

“Well, what is it?” he demanded, sitting down. 

“Do you know who those women were?” 

“No. Who are they?” 

“They’re Bessie Haines and Emma Gleeson; at 
east, that f s what they call themselves, and they ’re 
rotten bags.” 

Hugh had a little quiver of fright, but he felt 
that he ought to defend himself. 

“Well, what of it?” he asked sullenly. “I don’t 
see as you had any right to pull me away. You 
never paid any attention before to me. Why this 
sudden interest? How come you’re so anxious to 
guard my purity?” 

Slade was embarrassed. He threw his cigarette 


178 THE PLASTIC AGE 

into the fireplace and immediately lighted another 
one. Then he looked at his shoes and muttered, 
“I’m a pretty bad egg myself.” 

“So I Ve heard.” Hugh was frankly sarcastic. 

“Well, I am.” Slade looked up defiantly. “I 
guess it’s up to me to explain—and I don’t know 
how to do it. I’m a dumbbell. I can’t talk 
decently. I flunked English One three times, you 
know.” He hesitated a moment and then blurted 
out, “I was looking for those bags myself.” 

“What?” Hugh leaned forward and stared at 
him, bewildered and dumfounded. “You were 
looking for them?” 

Yeah ... You see, I’m a bad egg—always 
been a bad one with women, ever since I was a kid. 
Gotta have one about every so often. . . . I—I’m 
not much.” 

But what made you stop me ?” Hugh pressed 
his hand to his temple. His head was aching, and 
he could make nothing out of Slade’s talk. 

“Because—because . . . Oh, hell, Carver, I 
don t know how to explain it. I’m twenty-four and 
you ’re about nineteen, and I know a lot that you 
don’t. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran 
with a gang. There was n’t anything rotten that 
we did n t do. . , . I’ve been watching you. 
You ’re different.” 

“How different?” Hugh demanded. “I 
women just as much as you do.” 


want 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


179 


“That is n’t it.” Slade ran his fingers through 
his thick black hair and scowled fiercely at the fire¬ 
place. “That is n’t it at all. You ’re—you ’re 
awfully clean and decent. I’ve been watching you 
lots—oh, for a year. You ’re—you ’re different,” 
he finished lamely. 

Hugh was beginning to understand. “Do you 
mean,” he asked slowly, “that you want me to keep 
straight—that—that, well—that you like me that 
way better?” He was really asking Slade if he 
admired him, and Slade got his meaning perfectly. 
To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade 
had made every society on the campus; he had been 
given every honor that the students could heap on 
him—and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown 
sophomore. Why, it was ridiculous. 

“Yes, that’s what I mean; that’s what I was 
trying to get at.” For a minute Slade hesitated; 
he was n’t used to giving expression to his confused 
emotions, and he did n’t know how to go about it. 
“I’d—I’d like to be like you; that’s it. I—I 
did n’t want you to be like me. . , . Those women 
are awful bags. Anything might happen. ^ 

“Why didn’t you stop Carl Peters, too, then?” 

^Peters knows his way about. He can take 
care of himself. You’re different, though. .. . . 
You’ve never been drunk before, have you?” 

“No. No, I never have.” Hugh’s irritation 
was all gone. He was touched, deeply touched, by 


180 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Slade’s clumsy admiration, and he felt weak, 
emotionally exhausted after his little spree. “It’s 
awfully good of you to—to think of me that way 
I’m—I’m glad you stopped me.” 

Slade stood up. He felt that he had better be 
going. He could n’t tell Hugh how much he liked 
and admired him, how much he envied him. He 
was altogether sentimental about the boy, entirely 
devoted to him. He had wanted to talk to Hugh 
more than Hugh had wanted to talk to him, but he 
had never felt that he had anything to offer that 
could possibly interest Hugh. It was a strange 
situation; the hero had put the hero worshiper or 
a high, white marble pedestal. 

He moved toward the door. “So long,” he 
said as casually as he could. 

Hugh jumped up and rushed to him. “I ’rr 
awfully grateful to you, Harry,” he said im¬ 
pulsively. “It was damn white of you. I—I don’t 
know how to thank you.” He held out his hand. 

Slade gripped it for a moment, and then, mutter¬ 
ing another “So long,” passed out of the door. 

Hugh was more confused than ever and grev 
steadily more confused as the days passed. He 
could n’t understand why Slade, frankly unchaste 
himself, should consider his chastity so important 
He was genuinely glad that Slade had rescued him 
genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all thing! 
sexual was more confounded. The strangest thing 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


181 


vas that when he told Carl about Slade’s talk, Carl 
seemed to understand perfectly, though he never 
Dft'ered a satisfactory explanation. 

“I know how he feels,” Carl said, “and I’m 
iwfully glad he butted in and pulled you away. 
[’d hate to see you messing around with bags like 
:hat myself, and if I had n’t been drunk I would n’t 
lave let you. I’m more grateful to him than you 
ire. Gee! I’d never have forgiven myself,” he 
included fervently. 

Just when the incident was beginning to occupy 
ess of Hugh’s thoughts, it was suddenly brought 
lack with a crash. He came home from the gym- 
lasium one afternoon to find Carl seated at his 
lesk writing. He looked up when Hugh came in, 
ore the paper into fragments, and tossed them into 
he waste-basket. 

“Guess I’d better tell you,” he said briefly. “I 
vas just writing a note to you.” 

“Tome? Why?” 

Carl pointed to his suit-case standing by the 
:enter-table. 

“That’s why.” 

“Going away on a party?” 

“My trunk left an hour ago. I’m going away 
or good.” Carl’s voice was husky, and he spoke 
pith an obvious effort. 

Hugh walked quickly to the desk. “Why, old 


182 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


man, what’s the matter? Anything wrong wi 
your mother? You ’re not sick, are you?” 

Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. “Yes, I’m si< 
all right. I’m sick.” 

Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. “Wh 
what’s the matter? I didn’t know that yc 
were n’t feeling well.” 

Carl looked at the rug and muttered, “You r 
member those rats we picked up in Hastings?” 

“Yes?” 

“Well, I know of seven fellows they ’ve se 
home.” 

“What!” Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horrc 
“You don’t mean that you—that you—” 

“I mean exactly that,” Carl replied in a low, fl 
voice. He rose and moved to the other side of ti 
room. “I mean exactly that; and Doc Conne 
agrees with me,” he added sarcastically. Th 
more softly, “He’s got to tell the dean. That 
why I ’m going home.” 

Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion ai 
sympathy. “God, I’m sorry,” he exclaime 
“Oh, Carl, I’m so damn sorry.” 

Carl was standing by Hugh’s desk, his han 
clenched, his lips compressed. “Keep my junk,” 
said unevenly, “and sell anything you want to if y 
live in the house next year.” 

“But you ’ll be back?” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 183 

“No, I won’t come back—I won’t come back.” 
le was having a hard time to keep back the tears 
nd bit his trembling lip mercilessly. “Oh, Hugh,” 
e suddenly cried, “what will my mother say?” 
Hugh was deeply distressed, but he was startled 
y that “my mother.” It was the first time he had 
ver heard Carl speak of his mother except as the 
old lady.” 

“She will understand,” he said soothingly. 

“How can she? How can she? God, Hugh, 
tod!” He buried his face in his hands and wept 
itterly. Hugh put his arm around his shoulder 
id tried to comfort him, and in a few minutes Carl 
as in control of himself again. He dried his eyes 
ith his handkerchief. 

“What a fish I am!” he said, trying to grin. “A 
xldamn fish.” He looked at his watch. “Hell, 
've got to be going if I’m going to make the five 
teen.” He picked up his suit-case and held out 
s free hand. “There’s something I want to say 
you, Hugh, but I guess I ’ll write it. Please 
rn’t come to the train with me.” He gripped 
ugh’s hand hard for an instant and then v r as out 
the door and down the hall before Hugh had 
ne to say anything. 

Two days afterward the letter came. The cus- 
mary “Dear brother” and “Fraternally y**iirs” 
ire omitted. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


184 

Dear Hugh: 

I Ve thought of letters yards long but I’m not going tc 
write them. I just want to say that you are the finesi 
thing that ever happened to me outside of my mother, anc 
I respect you more than any fellow I ve ever known. I n 
ashamed because I started you drinking and I hope you 1 
stop it. I feel toward you the way Harry Slade does, onh 
more I guess. You’ve done an awful lot for me. 

I want to ask a favor of you. Please leave women alone 
Keep straight, please. You don’t know how much I wan 
you to do that. 

Thanks for all you’ve done for me. 

Carl. 

Hugh’s eyes filled with tears when he read tha 
letter. Carl seemed a tragic figure to him, and h 
missed him dreadfully. Poor old Carl! Wha 
hell it must have been to tell his mother! “And h 
wants me to keep straight. By God, I will. . . 

I ’ll try to, anyhow.” 





CHAPTER XVII 


H UGH’S depression was not continuous by 
any means. He was much too young 
and too healthy not to find life an en¬ 
joyable experience most of the time. Disillusion¬ 
ment followed disillusionment, each one painful and 
dispiriting in itself, but they came at long enough 
intervals for him to find a great deal of pleasure in 
between. 

Also, for the first time since he had been trans¬ 
ferred from Ailing’s section in Latin, he was taking 
genuine interest in a course. Having decided to 
major in English, he found that he was required to 
take a composition course the second half of his 
sophomore year. His instructor was Professor 
Henley, known as Jimmie Henley among the stu¬ 
dents, a man in his middle thirties, spare, neat in 
his dress, sharp with his tongue, apt to say what he 
thought in terms so plain that not even the stupidest 
undergraduate could fail to understand him. His 
hazel-brown eyes were capable of a friendly twin¬ 
kle, but they had a way of darkening suddenly and 
snapping that kept his students constantly on the 
alert. There was little of the professor about him 
but a great deal of the teacher. 

185 


186 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Hugh went to his first conference with him noi 
entirely easy in his mind. Henley had a reputatior 
for “tearing themes to pieces and making a felloe 
feel like a poor fish.” Hugh had written hii 
themes hastily, as he had during his freshman year 
and he was afraid that Henley might discovei 
evidences of that haste. 

Henley was leaning back in his swivel chair, hu 
feet on the desk, a brier pipe in his mouth, as Hugl 
entered the cubbyhole of an office. Down came th< 
feet with a bang. 

“Hello, Carver,” Henley said cheerfully 
“Come in and sit down while I go through youi 
themes.” He motioned to a chair by the desk 
Hugh muttered a shy “hello” and sat down, watch 
ing Henley expectantly and rather uncomfortably 
Henley picked up three themes. Then he turnec 
his keen eyes on Hugh. “I Ve already read these 
Lazy cuss, aren’t you?” he asked amiably, 

Hugh flushed. “I—I suppose so.” 

“You know that you are; no supposing to it.’ 
He slapped the desk lightly with the theme* 
“First drafts, aren’t they?” 

“Yes, sir.” Hugh felt his cheeks getting warmer 
Henley smiled. “Thanks for not lying. If yo 
had lied, this conference would have ended rigl 
now. Oh, I would n’t have told you that I though 
you were lying; I would simply have made a few pc 
lite but entirely insincere comments about your wor 




THE PLASTIC AGE 187 

md let you go. Now I am going to talk to you 
! rankly and honestly.” 

“I wish you would,” Hugh murmured, but he 
yas n’t at all sure that he wished anything of the 
ort. 

Henley knocked the ashes out of his pipe into a 
netal tray, refilled it, lighted it, and then puffed 
neditatively, gazing at Hugh with kind but specula¬ 
te eyes. 

“I think you have ability,” he began slowly. 
You evidently write with great fluency and con- 
iderable accuracy, and I can find poetic touches 
ere and there that please me. But you are care¬ 
ts, abominably careless, lazy. Whatever virtues 
here are in your themes come from a natural gift, 
ot from any effort you made to say the thing in the 
est way. Now, I’m not going to spend any time 

iscussing these themes in detail; they are n’t worth 
. »> 

He pointed his pipe at Hugh. “The point is 
xactly this,” he said sternly. “I ’ll never spend 
ny time discussing your themes so long as you turn 
1 hasty, shoddy work. I can see right now that 
ou can get a C in this course without trying. If 
iat’s all you want, all right, I ’ll give it to you— 
id let it go at that. The Lord knows that I have 
lough to do without wasting time on lazy young- 
ers who have n’t sense enough to develop their 
fts. If you continue to turn in themes like these, 



188 THE PLASTIC AGE 

I ’ll give you C’s or D’s on them and let you di 
your own shallow grave by yourself. But if yo 
want to try to write as well as you can, I ’ll give yo 
all the help in my power. Not one minute can yo 
have so long as you don’t try, but you can have houi 
i.f you do try. Furthermore, you will find writing 
pleasure if you write as well as you can, but yo 
won’t get any sport just scribbling off themes b 
cause you have to.” 

He paused to toss the three themes across t? 
desk to Hugh, who was watching him with astonisl 
ment. No instructor had ever talked to him th; 
;way before. 

“You can rewrite these themes if you want to 
Henley went on. “I have n’t graded them, ar 
I ’ll reserve the grades for the rewritten theme 
and if I find that you have made a real effort, I 
discuss them in detail with you. What do y< 
Say?” 

“I’d like to rewrite them,” Hugh said soft 
know they are rotten.” 

“No, they are n’t rotten. I’ve got dozens tl 
are worse. That is n’t the point. They are i| 
nearly so good as you can make them, and only yc 
best work is acceptable to me. Now show me wl 
you can do with them, and then we ’ll tear them 
shreds in regular fashion.” He turned to his d< 
and smiled at Hugh, who, understanding that 1 
conference was over, stood up and reached for 


THE PLASTIC AGE 189 

themes. “I ’ll be interested in seeing what you can 
do with those,” Henley concluded. “Every one of 
them has a good idea. Go to it—and get them 
back in a week.” 

i “Yes, sir. Thanks very much.” 

“Right-o. Good-by.” 

“Good-by, sir,” and Hugh left the office de¬ 
termined to rewrite those themes so that “they’d 
knock Jimmie Henley’s eye out.” They did n’t do 
exactly that, but they did interest him, and he spent 
an hour and a half discussing them with Hugh. 

That was merely the first of a series of long con¬ 
ferences. Sometimes Henley and Hugh discussed 
Writing, but often they talked about other subjects, 
not as instructor and student but as two men who 
respected each other’s mind. Before the term was 
out Henley had invited Hugh to his home for din- 
ler and to meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh was enor- 
nously flattered and, for some reason, stimulated to 
do better work. He found his talks with Henley 
really exciting, and he expressed his opinions to him 
is freely and almost as positively as he did to his 
:lassmates. He told his friends that Jimmie Hen- 
ey was human, not like most profs. And he 
vorked at his writing as he had never worked at 
mything, running excepted, since he had been in 
rollege. 

The students never knew what to expect from 
Henley in the class-room. Sometimes he read 


1 9 o THE PLASTIC AGE 

themes and criticized them; sometimes he discussed 
books that he had been reading; sometimes he read 
poetry, not because contemporary poetry was part 
of the course but because he happened to feel like 
reading it that morning; sometimes he discoursed 
on the art of writing; and sometimes he talked 
about anything that happened to be occupying his 
mind. He made his class-room an open forum, 
and the students felt free to interrupt him at any 
time and to disagree with him. Usually they did 
disagree with him and afterward wrote violent 
themes to prove that he was wrong. That was 
exactly what Henley wanted them to do, and the 
more he could stir them up the better satisfied he 
was. 

One morning, however, he talked without inter 
ruption. He did n’t want to be interrupted, anc 
the boys were so taken back by his statements tha 
they could find no words to say anything. 

The bell rang. Henley called the roll, stuck hi 
class-book into his coat pocket, placed his watch 01 
the desk; then leaned back and looked the class ove) 

“Your themes are making me sick,” he begar 
“nauseated. I have a fairly strong stomach, bu 
there is just so much that I can stand—and you hav 
passed the limit* There is hardly a man in th 
class who has n’t written at least one theme on th 
glory that is Sanford. As you know, I am a Sar 
ford man myself, and I have my share of affectio 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


191 

for the college, but you have reached an ecstasy of 
:hauvinism that makes Chauvin’s affection for Na¬ 
poleon seem almost like contempt. 

“In the last batch of themes I got five telling me 
of the perfection of Sanford: Sanford is the 
greatest college in the country; Sanford has the best 
athletes, the finest equipment, the most erudite 
faculty, the most perfect location, the most loyal 
alumni, the strongest spirit—the most superlative 
everything. Nonsense! Rot! Bunk! Sanford 
has n’t anything of the sort, and I who love it say 
so. Sanford is a good little college, but it is n’t a 
Harvard, a Yale, or a Princeton, or, for that mat¬ 
ter, a Dartmouth or Brown; and those colleges still 
have perfection ahead of them. Sanford has made 
a place for itself in the sun, but it will never find a 
bigger place so long as its sons do nothing but chant 
its praises and condemn any one as disloyal who 
happens to mention its very numerous faults. 

“Well, I’m going to mention some of those 
faults, not all of them by any means, just those that 
any intelligent undergraduate ought to be able to 
see for himself. 

“In the first place, this is supposed to be an 
educational institution; it is endowed for that pur¬ 
pose and it advertises itself as such. And you men 
say that you come here to get an education. But 
vhat do you really do? You resist education with 
all your might and main, digging your heels into the 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


192 

gravel of your own ignorance and fighting any at¬ 
tempt to teach you anything every inch of the way. 
What’s worse, you are n’t content with your own 
ignorance; you insist that every one else be ignorant, 
too. Suppose a man attempts to acquire culture, 
as some of them do. What happens? He is 
branded as wet. He is a social leper. 

“Wet! What currency that bit of slang has— 
and what awful power. It took me a long time to 
find out what the word meant, but after long re¬ 
search I think that I know. A man is wet if he 
is n’t a ‘regular guy’; he is wet if he is n’t ‘smooth’; 
he is wet if he has intellectual interests and lets the 
mob discover them; and, strangely enough, he is 
wet by the same token if he is utterly stupid. He 
is wet if he does n’t show at least a tendency to dis¬ 
sipate, but he is n’t wet if he dissipates to excess, 
A man will be branded as wet for any of these rea¬ 
sons, and once he is so branded, he might as well 
leave college; if he doesn’t, he will have a lonel} 
and hard row to hoe. It is a rare undergraduate 
who can stand the open contempt of his fellows.” 

He paused, obviously ordering his thoughts be 
fore continuing. The boys waited expectantly 
Some of them were angry, some amused, a few ii 
agreement, and all of them intensely interested. 

Henley leaned back in his chair. “What hor 
rible little conformers you are,” he began sar 
castically, “and how you loathe any one who does n’ 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


i 93 

conform! You dress both your bodies and your 
minds to some set model. Just at present you are 
making your hair foul with some sort of perfumed 
axle-grease; nine tenths of you part it in the middle. 
It makes no difference whether the style is becoming 
to you or not; you slick it down and part it in the 
middle. Last year nobody did it; the chances are 
that next year nobody will do it, but anybody who 
does n’t do it right now is in danger of being called 
wet.” 

Hugh had a moment of satisfaction. He did not 
pomade his hair, and he parted it on the side as he 
had when he came to college. True, he had tried 
the new fashion, but after scanning himself care¬ 
fully in the mirror, he decided that he looked like 
a “blond wop”—and washed his hair. He was 
guilty, however, of the next crime mentioned. 

“The same thing is true of clothes,” Henley was 
saying. “Last year every one wore four-button 
suits and very severe trousers. This year every 
one is wearing Norfolk jackets and bell-bottomed 
trousers, absurd things that flop around the shoes, 
and some of them all but trail on the ground. 
Now, any one who can’t afford the latest creation 
or who declines to wear it is promptly called wet. 

“And, as I said before, you insist on the same 
standardization of your minds. Just now it is not 
au fait to like poetry; a man who does is exceedingly 
;wet, indeed; he is effeminate, a sissy. As a matter 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


194 

of fact, most of you like poetry very much. You 
never give me such good attention as when I read 
poetry. What’s more, some of you are writing 
the disgraceful stuff. But what happens when a 
man does submit a poem as a theme? He writes 
at the bottom of the page, ‘Please do not read this 
in class.’ Some of you write that because you don’t 
think that the poem is very good, but most of you 
are afraid of the contempt of your classmates. I 
know of any number of men in this college who read 
vast quantities of poetry, but always on the sly. 
Just think of that! Men pay thousands of dollars 
and give four years of their lives supposedly to ac¬ 
quire culture and then have to sneak off into a cornet 
to read poetry. 

“Who are your college gods? The brilliant men 
who are thinking and learning, the men with ideals 
and aspirations? Not by a long shot. They are 
the athletes. Some of the athletes happen to be as 
intelligent and as eager to learn as anybody else, 
but a fair number are here simply because they are 
paid to come to play football or baseball or wha 
not. And they are worshiped, bowed down to. 
cheered, and adored. The brilliant men, unless 
they happen to be very ‘smooth’ in the bargain, are 
considered wet and are ostracized. 

“Such is the college that you write themes aboui 
to tell me that it is perfect. The college is made 
up of men who worship mediocrity; that is theii 


THE PLASTIC AGE 195 

ideal except in athletics. The condition of the foot¬ 
ball field is a thousand times more important to 
the undergraduates and the alumni than the number 
of books in the library or the quality of the faculty. 
The fraternities will fight each other to pledge an 
athlete, but I have yet to see them raise any dust 
over a man who was merely intelligent. 

“I tell you that you have false standards, false 
ideals, and that you have a false loyalty to the col¬ 
lege. The college can stand criticism; it will thrive 
and grow on it—but it won’t grow on blind adora¬ 
tion. I tell you further that you are as standard¬ 
ized as Fords and about as ornamental. Fords are 
useful for ordinary work; so are you—and unless 
some of you wake up and, as you would say, ‘get hep 
to yourselves,’ you are never going to be anything 
more than human Fords. 

“You pride yourselves on being the cream of the 
earth, the noblest work of God. You are told so 
constantly. You are the intellectual aristocracy of 
America, the men who are going to lead the masses 
to a brighter and broader vision of life. Merciful 
heavens preserve us! You swagger around utterly 
contemptuous of the man who has n’t gone to col¬ 
lege* You talk magnificently about democracy, 
but you scorn the non-college man—and you try 
pathetically to imitate Yale and Princeton. And I 
suppose Yale and Princeton are trying to imitate 
Fifth Avenue and Newport. Democracy! Rotl 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


196 

This college is n’t democratic. Certain frater¬ 
nities condescend to other fraternities, and those 
fraternities barely deign even to condescend to the 
non-fraternity men. You say hello to everybody 
on the campus and think that you are democratic. 
Don’t fool yourselves, and don’t try to fool me. If 
you want to write some themes about Sanford that 
have some sense and truth in them, some honest 
observation, go ahead; but don’t pass in any more 
chauvinistic bunk. I’m sick of it.” 

He put his watch in his pocket and stood up. 
“You may belong to the intellectual aristocracy of 
the country, but I doubt it; you may lead the masses 
to a ‘bigger and better’ life, but I doubt it; you may 
be the cream of the earth, but I doubt it. All I’ve 
got to say is this: if you ’re the cream of the earth, 
God help the skimmed milk.” He stepped down 
from the rostrum and briskly left the room. 

For an instant the boys sat silent, and then sud¬ 
denly there was a rustle of excitement. Some of 
them laughed, some of them swore softly, and most 
of them began to talk. They pulled on their baa- 
baa coats and left the room chattering. 

“He certainly has the dope,” said Pudge Jamie¬ 
son. “We ’re a lot of low-brows pretending to be 
intellectual high-hats. We ’re intellectual hypo¬ 
crites; that’s what we are.” 

“How do you get that way?” Ferdy Hillman 
who was walking with Hugh and Pudge, demandec 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


197 

angrily. “We may not be so hot, but we ’re a damn 
sight better than these guys that work in offices and 
mills. Jimmie Henley gives me a pain. He shoots 
off his gab as if he knew everything. He ’s got to 
show me where other colleges have anything on 
Sanford. He’s a hell of a Sanford man, he is.” 

They were walking slowly down the stairs. 
George Winsor caught up with them. 

“What did you think of it, George?” Hugh 
asked. 

Winsor grinned. “He gave me some awful body 
blows,” he said, chuckling. “Cripes, I felt most of 
the time that he was talking only to me. I’m sore 
all over. What did you think of it? Jimmie’s a 
live wire, all right.” 

“I don’t know what to think,” Hugh replied 
soberly. “He ’s knocked all the props from under 
me. I’ve got to think it over.” 

He did think it over, and the more he thought 
the more he was inclined to believe that Henley was 
right. Boy-like, he carried Henley’s statements to 
their final conclusion and decided that the college 
was a colossal failure. He wrote a theme and said 
so. 

“You ’re wrong, Hugh,” Henley said when he 
read the theme. “Sanford has real virtues, a 
bushel of them. You ’ll discover them all right 
before you graduate.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


S ANFORD’S virtues were hard for Hugh t( 
find, and they grew more inconspicuous as th< 
term advanced. For the time being nothing 
seemed worth while: he was disgusted with himself 
the undergraduates, and the fraternity; he felt thai 
the college had bilked him. Often he thought oi 
the talk he had had with his father before he lef 
for college. Sometimes that talk seemed funny 
entirely idiotic, but sometimes it infuriated him 
What right had his father to send him off to colleg 
with such fool ideas in his head? Nu Delta, th 
perfect brotherhood! Bull! How did his fathe 
get that way, anyhow? Hugh had yet to lean 
that nearly every chapter changes character at leas 
once a decade and that Nu Delta thirty years earlie 
had been an entirely different organization fron 
what it was at present. At times he felt that hi 
father had deliberately deceived him, but in quiete 
moments he knew better; then he realized that h 
father was a dreamer and an innocent, a delicate] 
minded man who had never really known anythin 
about Sanford College or the world either. Hug 
often felt older and wiser than his father; and 
many ways he was. 

198 





THE PLASTIC AGE 


199 

In March he angered his fraternity brothers 
again by refusing a part in the annual musical 
comedy, which was staged by the Dramatic Society 
during Prom week. Hugh’s tenor singing voice 
and rather small features made him an excellent 
possibility for a woman’s part. But he was not a 
good actor, and he knew it. His attempts at acting 
in a high-school play had resulted in a flat failure, 
and he had no intention of publicly making a fool of 
himself again. Besides, he did not like the idea of 
appearing on the stage as a girl; the mere idea was 
offensive to him. Therefore, when the Society of¬ 
fered him a part he declined it. 

Bob Tucker took him severely to task. “What 
do you mean, Hugh,” he demanded, “by turning 
down the Dramat? Here you ’ve got a chance for 
1 lead, and you turn up your nose at it as if you were 
Cod Almighty. It seems to me that you are getting 
*osh-awful high-hat lately. You run around with 
1 bunch of thoroughly wet ones; you never come to 
fraternity meetings if you can help it; you aren’t 
ialf training down at the track; and now you give 
he Dramat the air just as if an activity or two 
vas n’t anything in your young life.” 

“The Dramat is n’t anything to me,” Hugh re¬ 
plied, trying to keep his temper. Tucker’s ar- 
‘ogance always made him angry. “I can’t act 
vorth a damn. Never could. I tried once in a 
day at home and made a poor fish of myself, and 


200 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m not goinj 
to again.” 

“Bunk!” Tucker ejaculated contemptuously 
“Hooey! Anybody can act good enough for th 
Dramat. I tell you right now that you ’re turning 
the fraternity down; you ’re playing us dirt. Wha 
have you done in college? Not a goddamn thlnj 
except make the Glee Club. I don’t care abou 
track. I suppose you did your best last year 
though I know damn well that you are n’t doing i 
this year. What would become of the fraternit 
if all of us parked ourselves on our tails and gav 
the activities the air the way you do? You’r 
throwing us down, and we don’t like it.” 

“Well, I’m not going out for the Dramat, 
Hugh mumbled sullenly; “you can just bet on thai 
I ’ll admit that I have n’t trained the way I ougf 
to, but I have made the Glee Club, and I hav 
promised to join the Banjo Club, and I am still o 
the track squad, and that’s more than half the fe 
lows in this fraternity can say. Most of ’em don 
do anything but go on parties and raise hell ge 
erally. How come you ’re picking on me ? Wh 
don’t you ride some of them for a while? I don 
see where they ’re so hot.” 

“Never mind the other fellows.” Tucker’s bla< 
eyes flashed angrily. He was one of the “hell-rai 
ers” himself, good looking, always beautiful 
dressed, and proud of the fact that he was “rate 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


201 


:he smoothest man on the campus.” His “smooth- 
less” had made him prominent in activities—that 
md his estimate of himself. He took it for granted 
:hat he would be prominent, and the students ac- 
repted him at his own valuation; and powerful Nu 
Delta had been behind him, always able to swing 
fotes when votes were needed. 

“Never mind the other fellows,” he repeated. 
‘They ’re none of your party. You’ve got talents, 
ind you 're not making use of them. You could be 
is popular as the devil if you wanted to, but you 
?o chasing around with kikes and micks.” 

Hugh was very angry and a little absurd in his 
youthful pomposity. “I suppose you refer to 
Parker and Einstein—my one mick friend, although 
de is n’t Irish, and my one Jewish friend. Well, I 
shall stick to them and see just as much of them as 
[ like. I’ve told you that before, and you might 
is well get me straight right now: I’m going to 
run with whoever I want. The fraternity cannot 
dictate to me about my friends. You told me you 
did n’t want Parker and Einstein around the house. 
[ don’t bring them around. I don’t see as how 
/ou’ve got a right to ask anything more.” 

“I don’t suppose you realize that everything you 
do reflects on the fraternity,” Tucker retorted, 
slightly pompous himself. 

“I suppose it does, but I can’t see that I have 
done anything that is going to ruin the name of Nu 


202 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

Delta. T, don’t get potted regularly or chase around 
with-filthy bags or flunk my courses or crib my way 
through; and I could mention some men in this house 
who do all those things.” Hugh was thoroughly 
angry and no longer in possession of his best judg¬ 
ment. “If you don’t like the way I act, you can 
have my pin any time you say.” He stood up, his 
blue eyes almost black with rage, his cheeks flushed, 
his mouth a thin white line. 

Tucker realized that he had gone too far. “Oh, 
don’t get sore, Hugh,” he said soothingly. “I 
did n’t mean it the way you are taking it. Of 
course, we don’t want you to turn in your pin. We 
all like you. We just want you to come around 
more and be one of the fellows, more of a regular 
guy. We feel that you can bring a lot of honor to 
the fraternity if you want to, and we’ve been kinda 
sore because you’ve been giving activities the 
go-by.” 

“How about my studies?” Hugh retorted. “1 
suppose you want me to give them the air. Well 
I did the first term, and I made a record that I wa; 
ashamed of. I promised my folks that I’d do bet 
ter; and I’m going to. I give an hour or two ; 
day to track and several hours a week to the Gle< 
Club, and now I’m going to have to give severa 
more to the Banjo Club. That’s all I can give a 
present, and that’s all I’m going to give. I knov 
perfectly well that some fellows can go out for ; 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


203 

unch of activities and make Phi Bete, too; but 
hey ’re sharks and I’m not. Don’t worry, either; 
won’t disgrace the fraternity by making Phi Bete,” 
e concluded sarcastically. 

“Oh, calm down, Hugh, and forget what I said,” 
\icker pleaded, thoroughly sorry that he had 
tarted the argument. “You go ahead and do what 
ou think right and we ’ll stand by you.” He stood 
p and put his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “No 
ard feelings, are there, old man?” 

Kindness always melted Hugh; no matter how 
ngry he was, he could not resist it. “No,” he said 
3ftly; “no hard feelings. I’m sorry I lost my 
miper.” 

Tucker patted his shoulder. “Oh, that’s all 
ght. I guess I kinda lost mine, too. You ’ll be 
round to the meeting to-morrow night, won’t you? 
etter come. Paying fines don’t get you any- 
here.” 

“Sure, I ’ll come.” 

He went but took no part in the discussion, nor 
id he frequent the fraternity house any more than 
5 had previously. More and more he realized 
lat he had “gone with the wrong crowd,” and 
ore and more he thought of what Graham had 
fid to him in his freshman year about how a man 
as in hell if he joined the wrong fraternity. 
[ was the wise bird,” he told himself caustically; 
l was the guy who knew all about it. Graham saw 


204 THE PLASTIC AGE 

what would happen, and I did n’t have sense enough 
to take his advice. Hell, I never even thought 
about what he told me. I knew that I would be ir 
heaven if Nu Delta gave me a bid. Heaven! Well 
I’m glad that they were too high-hat for Norrj 
[Parker and that he went with the right bunch.” 

Norville Parker was Hugh’s Catholic friend, and 
the more he saw of the freshman the better he likec 
him. Parker had received several bids from fra 
ternities, and he followed the advice Hugh hac 
given him. “If Delta Sigma Delta bids you, gc 
there,” Hugh had said positively. “They ’re the 
bunch you belong with. Apparently the Kapp; 
Zetes are going to bid you, too. You go Delta S4 
if you get the chance.” Hugh envied Parker the 
really beautiful fraternity life he was leading 
“Why'in God’s name,” he demanded of himself reg 
ularly, “did n’t I have sense enough to take Graham’; 
advice?” 

When spring came, the two boys took long walk 
into the country, both of them loving the new beaut 1 
of the spring and happy in perfect companionship 
Hugh missed Carl badly, and he wanted to as! 
Parker to room with him the remainder of th 
term. He felt, however, that the fraternity woub 
object, and he wanted no further trouble with Ni 
Delta. As a matter of fact, the fraternity woub 
have said nothing, but Hugh had become hypersen 






















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- 

. 

. 














■ * 

- 


i \ 


- 

















■ 










THE PLASTIC AGE 


205 


itive and expected his “brothers'’ to find fault with 
lis every move. He had no intention of deserting 
5 arker, but he could not help feeling that rooming 
yith him would be a gratuitous insult to the fra- 
ernity. 

Parker—every one called him Norry—was a 
lender, delicate lad with dreamy gray eyes and silky 
irown hair that, unless he brushed it back severely, 
ell in soft curls on his extraordinarily white fore¬ 
lead. Except for a slightly aquiline nose and a 
irm jaw, he was almost effeminate in appearance, 
lis mouth was so sensitive, his hands so white and 
lender, his manner so gentle. He had a slow, 
vinning smile, a quiet, low voice. He was a dreamer 
md a mystic, a youth who could see fairies danc- 
ng in the shadows; and he told Hugh what he 
iaw. 

“I see things,” he said to Hugh one moonlight 
light as they strolled through the woods; “I see 
;hings, lovely little creatures flitting around among 
he trees: I mean I see them when I’m alone. 
[ like to lie on my back in the meadows and look 
it the clouds and imagine myself sitting on a big 
fellow and sailing and sailing away to heaven. It’s 
vonderful. I feel that way when I play my fiddle.” 
He played the violin beautifully and had promptly 
been made soloist for the Musical Clubs. I I 
can't explain. Sometimes when I finish playing, I 


20 6 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


find my eyes full of tears. I feel as if I had bet 
to some wonderful place, and I don’t want to con 
back. 

“I guess I’m not like other fellows. I cry ov< 
poetry, not because it makes me sad. It’s not tha 
It’s just so beautiful. Why, when I first read She 
ley’s ‘Cloud’ I was almost sick I was so happy, 
could hardly stand it. And when I hear beautifi 
music I cry, too. Why, when I listen to Kreisle 
I sometimes want to beg him to stop; it hurts ar 
makes me so happy that—that I just can’t star 
it,” he finished lamely. 

“I know,” Hugh said. “I know how it is. 
feel that way sometimes, too* but not as much 
you, I guess. I don’t cry. I never really cry, b 
I want to once in a while. I—I write poetry som 
times,” he confessed awkwardly, “but I guess it 
not very good. Jimmie Henley says it is n’t so b; 
for a sophomore, but I’m afraid that he’s ju 
stringing me along, trying to encourage me, y< 
know. But there are times when I ’ve said a litt 
bit right, just a little bit, but I’ve known that it w 
right—and then I feel the way you do.” 

“I’ve written lots of poetry,” Norry said sii 
ply, “but it’s no good; it’s never any good.” I 
paused between two big trees and pointed upwar 
“Look, look up there. See those black branch 
and that patch of sky between them and the 
stars. I want to picture that—and I can’t; anc 






THE PLASTIC AGE 


207 


want to picture the trees the way they look now so 
fluffy with tiny new leaves, but I miss it a million 
miles. . . . But I can get it in music,” he added 
more brightly. “Grieg says it. Music is the most 
wonderful thing in the world. I wish I could be a 
^reat violinist. I can’t, though. I’m not a genius, 
and I’m not strong enough. I can’t practise very 
long.” 

They continued walking in silence for a few min¬ 
utes, and then Norry said: “I’m awfully happy 
fiere at college, and I did n’t expect to be, either. I 
knew that I was kinda different from other fellows, 
not so strong; and I don’t like ugly things or smutty 
stories or anything like that. I think women are 
lovely, and I hate to hear fellows tell dirty stories 
about them. I’m no fool, Hugh; I know about the 
things that happen, but I don’t want to hear about 
them. Things that are dirty and ugly make me feel 
sick. 

“Well, I was afraid the fellows would razz me. 
But they don’t. They don’t at all. The fellows 
over at the Delta Sig house are wonderful to me. 
They don’t think I’m wet. They don’t razz me 
for not going on wild parties, though I know that 
some of the fellows are pretty gay themselves. 
They ask me to fiddle for them nearly every evening, 
and they sit and listen very, very quietly just as 
long as I ’ll play. I’m glad you told me to go 
Delta Sig.” 


208 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Norry made Hugh feel very old and a little crude 
and hard. He realized that there was something 
rare, almost exquisite, about the boy, and that he 
lived largely in a beautiful world of his own imag¬ 
ination. It would have surprised Norry if any 
one had told him that his fraternity brothers stood 
in awe of him, that they thought he was a genius. 
Some of them were built out of pretty common clay, 
but they felt the almost unearthly purity of the boy 
they had made a brother; and the hardest of them, 
the crudest, silently elected himself the guardian pi 
that purity. 


CHAPTER XIX 


H UGH found real happiness in Norry Park¬ 
er’s companionship, and such men as Bur¬ 
bank and Winsor were giving him a more 
robust but no less pleasant friendship. They were 
earnest youths, eager and alive, curious about the 
world, reading, discussing all sorts of topics vig¬ 
orously* and yet far more of the earth earthy than 
Parker, who was so mystical and dreamy that con¬ 
stant association with him would have been some¬ 
thing of a strain. 

For a time life seemed to settle down into a 
pleasant groove of studies that took not too much 
time, movies, concerts, an occasional play by the 
Dramatic Society, perhaps a slumming party to a 
dance in Hastings Saturday nights, bull sessions, 
long talks with Henley in his office or at his home, 
running on the track, and some reading. 

For a week or two life was lifted out of the 
groove by a professor’s daughter. Burbank intro¬ 
duced Hugh to her, and at first he was attracted 
by her calm dignity. He called three times and 
then gave her up in despair. Her dignity hid an 
utterly blank mind. She was as uninteresting as 
209 


210 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


her father, and he had the reputation, well deserved 
of being the dullest lecturer on the campus. 

Only one event disturbed the pleasant calm oi 
Hugh’s life after his argument with Tucker. H< 
did not attend Prom because he knew no girl whon 
he cared to ask; he failed again to make his lette 
and took his failure philosophically; and he receivec 
a note from Janet Harton telling him that she wa 
engaged to “the most wonderful man in the world’ 
—and he did n’t give a hoot if she was. 

Just after Easter vacation the Nu Deltas gav< 
their annual house dance. Hugh looked forward tc 
it with considerable pleasure. True, he was no 
“dragging a woman,” but several of the brother 
were going “stag”; so he felt completely at ease 

The freshmen were put to work cleaning th< 
house, the curtains were sent to the laundry, bed 
room closets and dresser drawers were emptied o 
anything the girls might find too interesting, and ai 
enormously expensive orchestra was imported fron 
New York. Finally a number of young alumni, th< 
four patronesses, and the girls appeared. 

Getting dressed for the dance was a real event ii 
Hugh’s life. He had worn evening clothes only ; 
few times before, but those occasions, fraternit 
banquets and glee club concerts, were, he felt 
relatively unimportant. The dance, however, wa 
different, and he felt that he must look his best, hi 
very “smoothest.” He was a rare undergraduate 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


211 


ie owned everything necessary to wear to an evening 
unction—at least, everything an undergraduate 
onsidered necessary. He did not own a dress- 
uit, and he would have had no use for it if he had; 
>nly Tuxedos were worn. 

He dressed with great care, tying and retying 
tis tie until it was knotted perfectly. When at last 
ie drew on his jacket, he looked himself over in the 
nirror with considerable satisfaction. He knew 
hat he was dressed right. 

It hardly entered his mind that he was an exceed- 
ngly good-looking young man. Vanity was not one 
>f his faults. But he had good reason to be pleased 
nth the image he was examining for any sartorial 
iefects. He had brushed his sandy brown hair un- 
il it shone; his shave had left his slender cheeks 
ilmost as smooth as a girl’s; his blue eyes were very 
>right and clear; and the black suit emphasized 
lis blond cleanness: it was a wholesome-looking, at- 
ractive youth who finally pulled on his top-coat and 
itarted happily across the campus for the Nu Delta 
louse. 

The dance was just starting when he arrived. 
Fhe patronesses were in the library, a small room 
iff the living-room. Hugh learned later that six 
nen had been delegated to keep the patronesses in 
:he library and adequately entertained. The men 
vorked in shifts, and although the dance lasted 
intil three the next morning, not a patroness got 


212 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


a chance to wander unchaperoned around the house. 

The living-room of the Nu Delta house was so 
large that it was unnecessary to use the dining¬ 
room for a dance. Therefore, most of the big 
chairs and divans had been moved into the dining¬ 
room—and the dining-room was dark. 

Hugh permitted himself to be presented to the 
patronesses, mumbled a few polite words, and then 
joined the stag line, waiting for a chance to cut in. 
Presently a couple moved slowly by, so slowly that 
they did not seem to move at all. The girl was 
Hester Sheville, and Hugh had been introduced to 
her in the afternoon. Despite rather uneven fea¬ 
tures and red hair, she was almost pretty; and in 
her green evening gown, which was cut daringly low, 
she was flashing and attractive. 

Hugh stepped forward and tapped her partner on 
the shoulder. The brother released her with a 
grimace at Hugh, and Hester, without a word, 
put her right hand in Hugh’s left and slipped her 
left arm around his neck. They danced in silence 
for a time, bodies pressed close together, swaying 
in place, hardly advancing. Presently, however, 
Hester drew her head back and spoke. 

“Hot stuff, is n’t it?” she asked lazily. 

Hugh was startled. Her breath was redolent of 
whisky. 

“Sure is,” he replied and executed a difficult step, 
the girl following him without the slightest difficulty. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


213 

She danced remarkably, but he was glad when he 
was tapped on the shoulder and another brother 
claimed Hester. The whisky breath had repelled 

him. 

As the evening wore on he danced with a good 
many girls who had whisky breaths. One girl 
clung to him as they danced and whispered, “Hold 
me up, kid; I’m ginned/’ He had to rush a third, 
a dainty blond child, to the porch railing. She 
was n’t a pretty sight as she vomited into the gar¬ 
den; nor did Hugh find her gasped comment, “The 
seas are rough to-night,” amusing. Another girl 
went sound asleep in a chair and had to be carried 
up-stairs and put to bed. 

A number of the brothers were hilarious; a few 
had drunk too much and were sick; one had a “cry¬ 
ing jag.” There were men there, however, who 
were not drinking at all, and they were making 
gallant efforts to keep the sober girls away from 
the less sober girls and the inebriated brothers. 

Hugh was not drinking. The idea of drinking 
at a dance was offensive to him; he thought it in¬ 
sulting to the girls. The fact that some of the 
girls were drinking horrified him. He did n’t mind 
their smoking—well, not very much; but drinking? 
That was going altogether too far. 

About midnight he danced again with Hester 
Sheville, not because he wanted to but because she 
had insisted. He had been standing gloomily in the 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


214 

doorway watching the bacchanalian scene, listen¬ 
ing to the tom-tom of the drums when she came up 
to him. 

‘‘I wanta dance,” she said huskily. “I wanta 
dance with you—you—you blond beast. 1 * Seeing 
no way to decline to dance with the half-drunk girl, 
he put his arm around her and started off. Hes¬ 
ter’s tongue was no longer in control, but her feet 
followed his unerringly. When the music stopped, 
she whispered, “Take me—ta-take me to th’ th’ 
dining-room.” Wonderingly, Hugh led her across 
the hall. He had not been in the dining-roo!m 
since the dance started, and he was amazed and 
shocked to find half a dozen couples in the big chairs 
or on the divans in close embrace. He paused, but 
Hester led him to an empty chair, shoved him 
clumsily down into it, and then flopped down or 
his lap. 

“Le’s—le *s pet,” she whispered. “ I wanna pet ’ 

Again Hugh smelled the whisky fumes as she pul 
her hot mouth to his and kissed him hungrily. H( 
was angry, angry and humiliated. He tried to ge 
up, to force the girl off of his lap, but she clunj, 
tenaciously to him, striving insistently to kiss hin 
on the mouth. Finally Hugh’s anger got the bet 
ter of his manners; he stood up, the girl hanging 
to his neck, literally tore her arms off of him, tool 
her by the waist and set her down firmly in th< 
chair. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


215 

“Sit there,” he said softly, viciously; “sit there.” 

She began to cry, and he walked rapidly out of 
he dining-room, his cheeks flaming and his eyes 
lashing; and the embracing couples paid no atten- 
ion to him at all. He had to pass the door of 
he library to get his top-coat—he made up his 
nind to get out of the “goddamned house”—and 
pas walking quickly by the door when one of the 
patronesses called to him. 

“Oh, Mr. Carver. Will you come here a 
ainute ?” 

“Surely, Mrs. Reynolds.” He entered the li- 
<rary and waited before the dowager. 

“I left my wrap up-stairs—in Mr. Merrill’s 
00m, I think it is. I am getting a little chilly. 
Von’t you get it for me?” 

“Of course. It’s in Merrill’s room?” 

“I think it is. It’s right at the head of the 
tairs. The wrap ’s blue with white fur.” 

Hugh ran up the stairs, opened Merrill’s door, 
witched on the lights, and immediately spotted the 
r rap lying over the back of a chair. He picked 
; up and was about to leave the room when a 
oise behind him attracted his attention. He turned 
nd saw a man and a girl lying on the bed watching 
im. 

Hugh stared blankly at them, his mouth half 
pen. 

“Get th* hell out of here,” the man said roughly. 


216 THE PLASTIC AGE 

For an instant Hugh continued to stare; then h 
whirled about, walked out of the room, slammed th 
door behind him, and hurried down the stairs. H 
delivered the wrap to Mrs. Reynolds, and two mir 
utes later he was out of the house walking, almos 
running, across the campus to Surrey Hall. One 
there, he tore off his top-coat, his jacket, his colla 
and tie, and threw himself down into a chair. 

So this was college! This was the fraternity— 
that goddamned rat house! That was what he ha 
pledged allegiance to, was it? Those were hi 
brothers, were they? Brothers! Brothers! 

He fairly leaped out of his chair and began t 
pace the floor. College! Gentlemen! A lot c 
muckers chasing around with a bunch of rats; that 
what they were. Great thing—fraternities. N 
doubt about it, they were a great institution. 

He paused in his mental tirade, suddenly coi 
scious of the fact that he was n’t fair. Some c 
the fraternities, he knew, would never stand for ar 
such performance as he had witnessed that evening 
most of them, he was sure, would n’t. It was ju 
the Nu Deltas and one or two others; well, mayl 
three or four. So that’s what he had joined, w; 
it? 

He thought of Hester Sheville, of her whisl* 
breath, her lascivious pawing—and his ham 
clenched. “Filthy little rat,” he said aloud, “tl 
stinkin’, rotten rat.” 




THE PLASTIC AGE 217 

Then he remembered that there had been girls 
:here who had n’t drunk anything, girls who some- 
iow managed to move through the whole orgy calm 
md sweet. His anger mounted. It was a hell of 
1 way to treat a decent girl, to ask her to a dance 
vith a lot of drunkards and soused rats. 

He was warm with anger. Reckless of the but- 
:ons, he tore off his waistcoat and threw it on a 
:hair. The jeweled fraternity pin by the pocket 
:aught his eye. He stared at it for a moment and 
hen slowly unpinned it. He let it lie in his hand 
ind addressed it aloud, hardly aware of the fact 
hat he was speaking at all. 

“So that’s what you stand for, is it? For snobs 
ind politicians and muckers. Well, I don’t want 
my more of you—not—one—damn—bit—more— 
>f—you.” 

He tossed the pin indifferently upon the center- 
able, making up his mind that he would resign from 
he fraternity the next day. 

When the next day came he found, however, that 
lis anger had somewhat abated. He was still in- 
lignant, but he didn’t have the courage to go 
hrough with his resignation. Such an action, he 
:new, would mean a great deal of publicity, pub- 
icity impossible to avoid. The fraternity would 
.nnounce its acceptance of his resignation in The 
ianford Daily News”; and then he would either 
lave to lie or start a scandal. 


218 THE PLASTIC AGE 

As the days went by and he thought more anc 
more about the dance, he began to doubt his in 
dignation. Was n’t he after all a prude to get sc 
hot? Wasn’t he perhaps a prig, a sissy? A 
times he thought that he was; at other times h< 
was sure that he was n’t. He could be permanently 
sure of only one thing, that he was a cynic. 



CHAPTER XX 


H UGH avoided the Nu Delta house for the 
remainder of the term and spent more 
time on his studies than he had since he 
lad entered college. The result was, of course, 
Eat he made a good record, and the A that Henley 
^ave him in English delighted him so much that he 
ilmost forgot his fraternity troubles. Not quite, 
lowever. During the first few weeks of the vaca- 
ion he often thought of talking to his father about 
^u Delta, but he could not find the courage to de¬ 
troy his father’s illusions. He found, too, that he 
ould n’t talk to his mother about things that he 
lad seen and learned at college. Like most of 
lis friends, he felt that “the folks would n’t 
nderstand.” 

He spent the first two months at home working 
n the farm, but when Norry Parker invited him 
o visit him for a month on Long Island Sound, 
lugh accepted the invitation and departed for the 
*arker summer cottage in high feather. He was 
ager to see Norry again, but he was even 
lore eager to see New York. He had just cele- 
rated his twentieth birthday, and he considered it 
219 


220 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

disgraceful that he had never visited the “Big City, 1 
as New York was always known at Sanford. 

Norry met him at Grand Central, a livelier an« 
more robust Norry than Hugh had ever seen. Th 
boy actually seemed like a boy and not a sprite; hi 
cheeks were tanned almost brown, and his gray eye 
danced with excitement when he spotted Hugh i 
the crowd. 

“Gee, Hugh, I’m glad to see you, 11 he exclaimec 
shaking Hugh’s hand joyously. “I’m tickled t 
death that you could come.” 

“So am I,” said Hugh heartily, really happy t 
see Norry looking so well, and thrilled to be in Ne 
York. “Gosh, you look line. I hardly know yoi 
[Where’d you get all the pep?” 

“Swimming and sailing. This is the first sun 
mer I’ve been well enough to swim all I want tt 
Oh, it’s pretty down where we are. You ’ll kn 
the nights, Hugh. The Sound is wonderful.” 

“I ’ll bet. Well, where do we go from here 
Say, this is certainly a whale of a station, is n’t il 
It makes me feel like a hick.” 

“Oh, you ’ll get over that soon enough,” Norr 
the seasoned New Yorker, assured him easi! 
“We ’re going right out to the cottage. It’s t< 
hot to-day to run around the city, but we ’ll cor 
in soon and you can give it the once-over.” I: 
took Hugh’s arm and led him out of the station. 

It had never entered Hugh’s mind that Norn 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


221 


! ather might be rich. He had noticed that Norry’s 
:lothes were very well tailored, and Norry had told 
lim that his violin was a Cremona, but the boy was 
lot lavish with money and never talked about it at 
ill. Hugh was therefore surprised and a little 
itartled to see Norry walk up to an expensive limou- 
ine with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. He 
vondered if the Parkers were n’t too high-hat for 
lim? 

“We ’ll go right home, Martin,” Norry said to 
he chauffeur. “Get in, Hugh.” 

The Parker cottage was a short distance from 
^ew Rochelle. It was a beautiful place, hardly in 
he style of a Newport “cottage” but roomy and 
rtvy comfortable. It was not far from the water, 
ind the Parkers owned their own boat-house. 

Mrs. Parker was on the veranda when the car 
irew up at the steps. 

“Hello, Mother,” Norry called. 

She got up and ran lightly down the steps, her 
land held out in welcome to Hugh. 

“I know that you are Hugh Carver,” she said in 
. beautifully modulated voice, “and I am really 
lelighted to meet you. Norry has talked so much 
ibout you that I should have felt cheated if you 
>ad n’t come.” 

Hugh’s fears immediately departed. “I should 
Lave myself,” he replied. “It was awfully good of 
ou to invite me.” 


222 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

After meeting Norry’s father and mother, Hug 
understood the boy better. Mrs. Parker was hot 
charming and pretty, a delightful woman who playe 
the piano with professional skill. Mr. Parker w£ 
an artist, a portrait-painter, and he got prices fc 
his pictures that staggered Hugh when Norry mei 
tioned them casually. He was a quiet, grave ma 
with gray eyes like his son’s. 

When he had a minute alone with Hugh, he sai 
to him with simple sincerity: “You have been vei 
kind to Norry, and we are grateful. He is 
strange, poetic lad who needs the kind of unde 
standing friendship you have given him. Vs 
should have been deeply disappointed if you had n 
been able to visit us.” 

The expressions of gratitude embarrassed Hug 
but they made him feel sure of his welcome; ar 
once he was sure of that he began to enjoy himse 
as he never had before. Before the month was or 
he had made many visits to New York and w; 
able to talk about both the Ritz and Macdougal 
ley with elaborate casualness when he returned 
college. He and Norry went swimming near 
every day and spent hours sailing on the Sound. 

Norry introduced him to the many girls who h; 
summer homes near the Parker cottage. Th 
were a new type to him, boarding-school produci 
sure of themselves, “finished” with a high poli 
that glittered effectively, daringly frank both 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


223 

heir speech and their actions, beautiful dancers, 
;ood swimmers, full of “dirt,” as they called gossip, 
tnd as offhand with men as they were with each 
>ther. Within a week Hugh got over his preju- 
lice against women’s smoking. Nearly every 
roman he met, including Mrs. Parker, smoked, and 
very girl carried her cigarette-case. 

Most of the girls treated Norry as if he were 

very nice small boy, but they adopted a different 
ttitude toward Hugh. They flirted with him, per- 
ected his “petting” technique, occasionally treated 
iim to a drink, and made no pretense of hiding his 
ttraction for them. 

At first Hugh was startled and a little repelled, 
ut he soon grew to like the frankness, the petting, 
nd the liquor; and he was having a much too ex¬ 
iting time to pause often for criticism of himself 
r anybody else. It was during the last week of 
is visit that he fell in love. 

He and Norry were standing near the float watch- 
lg a number of swimmers. Suddenly Hugh was 
ttracted by a girl he had never seen before. She 
ore a red one-piece bathing-suit that revealed every 
urve of her slender, boyish figure. 

She noticed Norry and threw up her arm in 
reeting. 

“Who is she?” Hugh demanded eagerly. 

“Cynthia Day. She’s just back from visiting 
dends in Maine. She’s an awfully good swimmer. 


224 THE PLASTIC AGE 

Watch her.” The girl poised for an instant on the 
edge of the float and then dived gracefully into the 
water, striking out with a powerful overhand stroke 
for another float a quarter of a mile out in the 
Sound. The boys watched her red cap as she 
rounded the float and started back, swimming easily 
and expertly. When she reached the beach, she 
ran out of the water, rubbed her hands over her 
face, and then strolled over to Norry. 

Her hair was concealed by a red bathing-cap, but 
Hugh guessed that it was brown; at any rate, her 
eyes were brown and very large. She had an im> 
pudent little nose and full red lips. 

“ ’Lo, Norry,” she said, holding out her hand 
“How’s the infant?” 

“Oh, I’m fine. This is my friend Hugh Carver.’ 

“I’ve heard about you,” she said as they shool 
hands. “I only got back last night, but everybod) 
seems to be digging dirt about Norry’s friend 
Three of my friends are enemies on account of you 
and one of ’em says she’s going in swimming some 
day and forget to come back if you don’t give her ; 
little more time.” 

Hugh blushed, but he had learned a few thing; 
in the past weeks. 

“I wish they would tell me about it,” he said witl 
a fair assumption of ease. “Why did n’t you com< 
back sooner?” He was pleased with that speech 
He would n’t have dared it a month before. 


225 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


The brown eyes smiled at him. “Because I 
lid n’t know you were here. You haven’t got a 
:igarette about you, have you? Norry’s useless 
vhen it comes to smokes.” 

Hugh did have a package of cigarettes. She 
:ook one, put it in her mouth, and waited for Hugh 
;o light it for her. When he did, she gazed cu¬ 
riously over the flame at him. She puffed the cig¬ 
arette for a moment and then said, “You look 
like a good egg. Let’s talk.” She threw herself 
down on the sand, and the boys sat down beside 

From that moment Hugh was lost. For the re¬ 
maining days of the visit he spent every possible 
moment with Cynthia, fascinated by her chatter, 
thrilled by the touch of her hand. She made no ob¬ 
jection when he offered shyly to kiss her; she quietly 
put her arms around his neck and turned her face 
up to his—and her kisses set him aflame. 

rv- nnrt- be did not want to return to college, 



Custom made it necessary t 
fraternity house. It was an 


226 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Delta that all members live in the house their Iasi 
two years, and Hugh hardly dared to contest th( 
law. There were four men in the chapter whorr 
he thoroughly liked and with whom he would have 
been glad to room, but they all had made their ar 
rangements by the time he spoke to them; so he was 
forced to accept Paul Vinton’s invitation to roon 
with him. 

Vinton was a cheerful youth with too much mone) 
and not enough sense. He wanted desperately tc 
be thought a good fellow, a “regular guy,” and he 
was willing to buy popularity if necessary by stand 
ing treat to any one every chance he got. He was 
known all over the campus as a “prize sucker.” 

He bored Hugh excessively by his confidences anc 
almost offensive generosity. He always had a sup' 
ply of Scotch whisky on hand, and he offered it tc 
him so constantly that Hugh drank too much be 
cause it was easier and pleasanter to drink than tc 
refuse. 

Tucker had graduated, and the new president 
Leonard Gates, was an altogether different sort o 
man. There had been a fight in the fraternity ovei 
his election. The “regular guys” opposed him anc 
offered one of their own number as a candidate. 
Gates, however, was prominent in campus activities 
and had his own following in the house; as a result 
he was elected by a slight margin. 

He won Hugh’s loyalty at the first fraternity 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


227 


neeting after he took the chair. “Some things are 
roing to be changed in this house,” he said sternly, 
‘or I will bring influence to bear that will change 
ihem.” Every one knew that he referred to the 
lational president of the fraternity. “There will 
,e no more drunken brawls in this house such as 
ve had at the last house dance. Any one who brings 
1 cheap woman into this house at a dance will hear 
from it. Both my fiancee and my sister were at 
:he last dance. I do not intend that they shall be 
insulted again. This is not a bawdy-house, and I 
want some of you to remember that.” 

He tried very hard to pass a rule, such as many 
of the fraternities had, that no one could bring liq¬ 
uor into the house and that there should be no gam¬ 
bling. He failed, however. The brothers took his 
scolding about the dance because most of them were 
heartily ashamed of that occasion; but they an¬ 
nounced that they did not intend to have the chapter 
turned into the S. C. A., which was the Sanford 
Christian Association. It would have been well for 
Hugh if the law had been passed. Vinton’s insist¬ 
ent generosity was rapidly turning him into a steady 
drinker. He did not get drunk, but he was taking 
down more high-balls than were good for him. 

Outside of his drinking, however, he was leading 
a virtuous and, on the whole, an industrious 1 e. 
He was too much in love with Cynthia Day to let 
his mind dwell on other women, and he had become 


228 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


sufficiently interested in his studies to like them for 
their own sake. 

A change had come over the campus. It was in¬ 
explicable but highly significant. There had been 
evidences of it the year before, but now it became 
so evident that even some of the members of the 
faculty were aware of it. Intolerance seemed to be 
dying, and the word “wet” was heard less often. 
The undergraduates were forsaking their old gods. 
The wave of materialism was swept back by an in- 
rushing tide of idealism. Students suddenly ceased 
to concentrate in economics and filled the English 
and philosophy classes to overflowing. 

No one was able really to explain the causes for 
the change, but it was there and welcome. The 
“Sanford Literary Magazine,” which had been 
slowly perishing for several years, became almost 
as popular as the “Cap and Bells,” the comic maga¬ 
zine, which coined money by publishing risque jokes 
and pictures of slightly dressed women. A poetry 
magazine daringly made its appearance on the 
campus and, to the surprise of its editors, was re¬ 
ceived so cordially that they were able to pay the 
printer’s bill. 

It became the fashion to read. Instructors in 
English were continually being asked what the best 
new books were or if such and such a book was all 
that it was “cracked up to be.” If the instructor 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


229 

had n’t read the book, he was treated to a look of 
contempt that sent him hastening to the library. 

Of course, not all of the undergraduates took to 
reading and thinking; the millennium had not ar¬ 
rived, but the intelligent majority began to read and 
discuss books openly, and the intelligent majority 
ruled the campus. 

Hugh was one of the most enthusiastic of the 
readers. He was taking a course in nineteenth- 
:entury poetry with Blake, the head of the English 
department. His other instructors either bored 
lim or left him cold, but Blake turned each class 
lour into a thrilling experience. He was a hand¬ 
some man with gray hair, dark eyes, and a magnif¬ 
icent voice. He taught poetry almost entirely by 
-eading it, only occasionally interpolating an explan- 
itory remark, and he read beautifully. His reading 
vas dramatic, almost tricky; but it made the poems 
ive for his students, and they reveled in his classes. 

Hugh’s junior year was made almost beautiful by 
hat poetry course and by his adoration for Cyn- 
hia. He was writing verses constantly—and he 
ound “Cynthia” an exceedingly troublesome word; 
t seemed as if nothing would rime with it. At 
:imes he thought of taking to free verse, but the 
•esults of his efforts did not satisfy him. He al¬ 
ways had the feeling that he had merely chopped 
ip some rather bad prose; and he was invariably 



2 3 o THE PLASTIC AGE 

right. Cynthia wrote him that she loved the poems 
he sent her because they were so passionate. He 
blushed when he read her praise. It disturbed him. 
He wished that she had used a different word. 


CHAPTER XXI 


F OR the first term Hugh slid comfortably 
down a well oiled groove of routine. He 
went to the movies regularly, wrote as reg¬ 
ularly to Cynthia and thought about her even more, 
read enormous quantities of poetry, “bulled” with 
his friends, attended all the athletic contests, played 
cards occasionally, and received his daily liquor 
from Vinton. He no longer protested when Vinton 
offered him a drink; he accepted it as a matter of 
course, and he had almost completely forgotten that 
“smoking was n’t good for a runner.” He had just 
about decided that he was n’t a runner, anyway. 

One evening in early spring he met George Win- 
sor as he was crossing the campus. 

“Hello, George. Where are you going?” 
“Over to Ted Allen’s room. Big poker party to¬ 
night. Don’t you want to sit in?” 

“You told me last week that you had sworn off 
poker. How come you ’re playing again so soon?” 
Hugh strolled lazily along with Winsor. 

“Not poker, Hugh—craps. I’ve sworn off craps 
for good, and maybe I ’ll swear off poker after to¬ 
night. I’m nearly a hundred berries to the good 


232 THE PLASTIC AGE 

right now, and I can afford to play if I want to.” 

“I’m a little ahead myself,” said Hugh, “1 
don’t play very often, though, except in the house 
when the fellows insist. I can’t shoot craps at all, 
and I get tired of cards after a couple of hours.” 

“I’m a damn fool to play,” Winsor asserted posi¬ 
tively, “a plain damn fool. I ought n’t to waste my 
time at it, but I’m a regular fiend for the game. . 1 
get a great kick out of it. How’s to sit in with 
us? There’s only going to be half a dozen fellows, 
Two-bit limit.” 

“Yeah, it ’ll start with a two-bit limit, but after 
an hour deuces ’ll be wild all over the place and tht 
sky will be the limit. I’ve sat in those games 
before.” 

Winsor laughed. “Guess you ’re right, but 
what’s the odds? Better shoot a few hands.” 

“Well, all right, but I can’t stay later than eleven 
I’ve got a quiz in eccy to-morrow, and I’ve got tc 
bone up on it some time to-night.” 

“I’ve got that quiz, too. I ’ll leave with you a 
eleven.” 

Winsor and Hugh entered the dormitory anc 
climbed the stairs. Allen’s door was open, and sev 
eral undergraduates were lolling around the room 
smoking and chatting. They welcomed the new 
comers with shouts of “Hi, Hugh,” and “Hi 
George.” 

Allen had a large round table in the center o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


233 

his study, and the boys soon had it cleared for ac¬ 
tion. Allen tossed the cards upon the table, pro¬ 
duced several ash-trays, and then carefully locked 
the door. 

“Keep an ear open for Mac,” he admonished his 
friends. “He ’s warned me twice now.” “Mac” 
svas the night-watchman, and he had a way of drop¬ 
ping in unexpectedly on gambling parties. “Here 
ire the chips. You count ’em out, George. Two- 
3it limit.” 

The boys drew up chairs to the table, lighted 
:igarettes or pipes, and began the game. Hugh had 
Deen right; the “two-bit limit” was soon lifted, 
ind Allen urged his guests to go as far as they 
iked. 

There were ugly rumors about Allen around the 
:ampus. He was good looking, belonged to a fra- 
:ernity in high standing, wore excellent clothes, and 
lid fairly well in his studies; but the rumors per¬ 
sisted. There were students who insisted that he 
lad n’t the conscience of a snake, and a good many 
of them hinted that no honest man ever had such 
ronsistently good luck at cards and dice. 

The other boys soon got heated and talkative, 
Out Allen said little besides announcing his bids, 
fiis blue eyes remained coldly expressionless whether 
he won or lost the hand; his crisp, curly brown hair 
remained neatly combed and untouched by a nervous 
land; his lips parted occasionally in a quiet smile: 


234 THE PLASTIC AGE 

he was the perfect gambler, never excited, always 
in absolute control of himself. 

Hugh marveled at the control as the evening wore 
on. He was excited, and, try as he would, he 
could not keep his excitement from showing. Luck, 
however, was with him; by ten o’clock he was sev¬ 
enty-five dollars ahead, and most of it was Allen’s 
money. 

Hugh passed by three hands in succession, unwill¬ 
ing to take any chances. He had decided to “play 
close,” never betting unless he held something worth 
putting his money on. 

Allen dealt the fourth hand. “Ante up,” he said 
quietly. The five other men followed his lead in 
tossing chips into the center of the table. He 
looked at his hand. “Two blue ones if you want 
to stay in.” Winsor and two of the men threw 
down their cards, but Hugh and a lad named Man- 
del each shoved two blue chips into the pot. 

Hugh had three queens and an ace. “One card,” 
he said to Allen. Allen tossed him the card, and 
Hugh’s heart leaped when he saw that it was an ace 

“Two cards, Ted,” Mandel requested, nervously 
crushing his cigarette in an ash-tray. He picked up 
the cards one at a time, lifting each slowly by one 
corner, and peeking at it as if he were afraid that a 
sudden full view would blast him to eternity. His 
face did not change expression as he added th$ 
cards to the three that he held in his hand. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 235 

“I’m sitting pretty,” Allen remarked casually, 
picking up the five cards that he had laid down 
before he dealt. 

The betting began, Hugh nervous, openly excited, 
Mandel stonily calm, Allen completely at ease. At 
irst the bets were for a dollar, but they gradually 
rose to five. Mandel threw down his cards. 

“Fight it out,” he said morosely. “I’ve thrown 
iway twenty-five bucks, and I ’ll be damned if I’m 
*oing to throw away any more to see your four- 
lushes.” 

Allen lifted a pile of chips and let them fall 
ightly, clicking a rapid staccato. “It ’ll cost you 
en dollars to see my hand, Hugh,” he said quietly. 

“It ’ll cost you twenty if you want to see mine,” 
Hlugh responded, tossing the equivalent to thirty 
lollars into the pot. He watched Allen eagerly, 
nit Allen’s face remained quite impassive as he 
aised Hugh another ten. 

The four boys who were n’t playing leaned for¬ 
ward, pipes or cigarettes in their mouths, their 
tomachs pressed against the table, their eyes nar- 
owed and excited. The air was a stench of stale 
moke; the silence between bets was electric. 

The betting continued, Hugh sure that Allen was 
luffing, but Allen never failed to raise him ten dol- 
ars on every bet. Finally Hugh had a hundred 
lollars in the pot and dared not risk more on his 
and. 


236 THE PLASTIC AGE 

“I think you ’re bluffing, goddamn it,” he sai 
his voice shrill and nervous. “I ’ll call you. She 
your stinkin’ hand.” 

“Oh, not so stinkin’,” Allen replied lightl 
“I’ve got four of a kind, all of ’em kings. Let 
see your three deuces.” 

He tossed down his hand, and Hugh slumped 
his chair at the sight of the four kings. He shov< 
the pile of chips toward Allen. “Take the pc 
damn you. Of all the bastard luck. Look!” t 
slapped down his cards angrily. “A full hous 
queens up. Christ!” He burst into a flood of o 
scenity, the other boys listening sympathetically, j 
except Allen who was carefully stacking the chips 

In a few minutes Hugh’s anger died. He i 
membered that he was only about twenty-five dolla 
behind and that he had an hour in which to recov 
them. His face became set and hard; his han 
lost their jerky eagerness. He played careful 
never daring to enter a big pot, never betting f 
more than his hands were worth. 

As the bets grew larger, the room grew quiet 
Every one was smoking constantly; the air was hea 
with smoke, and the stench grew more and me 
foul. Outside of a soft, “I raise you twenty,” 
even, “Fifty bucks if you want to see my hand,’ 
muttered oath or a request to buy chips, there v 
hardly a word said. The excitement was so inter 
that it hurt; the expletives smelled of the docks. 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


237 

At times there was more than five hundred dol- 
rs in a pot, and five times out of seven when the 
)t was big, Allen won it. Win or lose, he con- 
nued cool and calm, at times smoking a pipe, other 
mes puffing nonchalantly at a cigarette. 

The acrid smoke cut Hugh's eyes; they smarted 
id pained, but he continued to light cigarette after 
^arette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, 
trdly aware of the fact that they hurt. 

He won and lost, won and lost, but gradually he 
on back the twenty-five dollars and a little more, 
he college clock struck eleven. He knew that he 
ight to go, but he wondered if he could quit with 
>nor when he was ahead. 

“I ought to go,” he said hesitatingly. “I told 
eorge when I said that I’d sit in that I’d have to 
ive at eleven. I’ve got an eccy quiz to-morrow 
at I Ve got to study for.” 

“Oh, don’t leave now,” one of the men said ex- 
edly. “Why, hell, man, the game’s just getting 
irm.” 

“I know,” Hugh agreed, “and I hate like hell to 
it, but I Ve really got to beat it. Besides, the 
ikes are too big for me. I can’t afford a game 
e this.” 

“You can afford it as well as I can,” Mandel said 
itably. “I’m over two hundred berries in the 
le right now, and you can goddamn well bet that 
m not going to leave until I get them back.” 


238 THE PLASTIC AGE 

“Well, I’ma hundred and fifty to the bad,” Wi 
sor announced miserably, “but I Ve got to go. 

I don’t hit that eccy, I’m going to be out* of luck 
He shoved back his chair. “I hate like hell 1 
leave; but I promised Hugh that I’d leave wil 
him at eleven, and I’ve got to do it.” 

Allen had been quite indifferent when Hugh sa 
that he was leaving. Hugh was obviously srm 
money, and Allen had no time to waste on chicke 
feed, but Winsor was a different matter. 

“You don’t want to go, George, when you ’re 
the hole. Better stick around. Maybe you ’ll w 
it back. Your luck can’t be bad all night.” 

“You ’re right,” said Winsor, stretching mightil 
“It can’t be bad all night, but I can’t hang aroui 
all night to watch it change. You’re welcome 
the hundred and fifty, Ted, but some night so< 
I’m coming over and take it away from you.” 

Allen laughed. “Any time you say, George.” 

Hugh and Winsor settled their accounts, th 
stood up, aching and weary, their muscles cramp 
from three hours of sitting and nervous tensh 
They said brief good nights, unlocked the door 
they heard Allen lock it behind them—and h 
their disgruntled friends, glad to be out of t 
noisome odor of the room. 

“God, what luck!” Winsor exclaimed as th 
started down the hall. “I’m off Allen for go( 
That boy wins big pots too regularly and alw; 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


239 

ses the little ones. I bet he’s a cold-deck artist 
something.” 

“He’s something all right,” Hugh agreed, 
"ripes, I feel dirty and stinko. I feel as if I’d 
en in a den.” 

“You have been. Say, what’s that?” They 
,d almost traversed the length of the long hall 
len Winsor stopped suddenly, taking Hugh by the 
m. A door was open, and they could hear some- 
dy reading. 

“What’s what?” Hugh asked, a little startled by 
e suddenness of Winsor’s question. 

“Listen. That poem. I’ve heard it somewhere 
fore. What is it?” 

Hugh listened a moment and then said: “Oh, 
at’s the poem Prof Blake read us the other day— 
u know, ‘Marpessa.’ It’s about the shepherd, 
Polio, and Marpessa. It’s great stuff. Listen.” 
They remained standing in the deserted hall, 
e voice coming clearly to them through the open 
orway. “It’s Freddy Fowler,” Winsor whis- 
red. “He can sure read.” 

The reading stopped, and they heard Fowler say 
some one, presumably his room-mate: “This is 
e part that I like best. Get it.” Then he read 
as’s plea to Marpessa: 

“‘After such argument what can I plead? 

Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is 


240 THE PLASTIC AGE 

In women to pity rather than to aspire, 

A little I will speak. I love thee then 
Not only for thy body packed with sweet 
Of all this world, that cup of brimming June, 
That jar of violet wine set in the air, 

That palest rose sweet in the night of life; 

Nor for that stirring bosom all besieged 
By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair; 

Nor for that face that might indeed provoke 

Invasion of old cities; no, nor all 

Thy freshness stealing on me like strange sleep/ 99 

Winsor’s hand tightened on Hugh’s arm, and tl 
two boys stood almost rigid listening to the your 
voice, which was trembling with emotion, rich wi 
passion: 

“ ‘Not only for this do I love thee, but 
Because Infinity upon thee broods; 

And thou are full of whispers and of shadows* 
Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say 
So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell; 

Thou art what all the winds have uttered not, 
What the still night suggesteth to the heart. 

Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth, 

Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea; 

Thy face remembered is from other worlds, 

It has been died for, though I know not when, 

It has been sung of, though I know not where/ * 

“God,” Winsor whispered, “that’s beautil 
“Hush. This is the best part.” 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


241 


“ ‘It has the strangeness of the luring* West, 

And of sad sea-horizons; beside thee 
I am aware of other times and lands, 

Of birth far back, of lives in many stars. 

O beauty lone and like a candle dear 
In this dark country of the world E Thou art 
My were, my early light, my music dying.* ** 

Hugh and Winsor remained silent while the young 
ice went on reading Mar$essa*Sr reply, her 
ntle refusal of the god and her proud acceptance 
the mortal. Finally they heard the last words: 

“When she had spoken* Idas with one cry 
Held her, and there was silence; while the god 
In anger disappeared. Then slowly they, 

He looking downward, and she gazing up, 

Into the evening green wandered away.” 

When the voice paused, the poem done, the two 
»ys walked slowly down the hall, down the steps, 
id out into the cool night air. Neither said a 
ord until they were half-way across the campus, 
hen Winsor spoke softly: 

“God! Was n’t that beautiful?’’ 

“Yes—beautiful.” Hugh’s voice was Hard y 
ore than a whisper. “Beautiful. • • • lt 
1, it makes me—kinda ashamed. 

“Me, too. Poker when we can have that. 

/e r re awful fools, Hugh.” 

“Yes—awful fools.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


"IT^ROM came early in May, and Hugh looki 
i —** forward to it joyously, partly because 
JL would be his first Prom and partly becau 
Cynthia was coming. Cynthia! He thought 
her constantly, dreamed of her, wrote poems abo 
her and to her. At times his longing for her swell 
into an ecstasy of desire that racked and tore hir 
He was lost in love, his moods sweeping him fro 
lyric happiness to black despair. He wrote to h 
several times a week, and between letters he to< 
long walks composing dithyrambic epistles thi 
fortunately were never written. 

When he received her letter saying that si 
would come to Prom, he yelled like a lunati 
pounded the astonished Vinton on the back, ar 
raced down-stairs to the living-room. 

“She’s coming!” he shouted. 

There were several men in the room, and they £ 
turned and looked at him, some of them grinnir 
broadly. 

“What th’ hell, Hugh?” Leonard Gates ask< 
amiably. “Who’s coming ? Who ’$ she ?” 

Hugh blushed and shuffled his feet. He kne 
that he had laid himself open to a “royal razzing 
242 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


243 

ut He proceeded to bluff himself out of the di- 
:mma. 

“She? OH, yes, she. Well, she is she. Alto- 
ether divine, Len.” He was trying hard to be 
asual and flippant, but his eyes were dancing and 
is lips trembled with smiles. 

Gates grinned at him. “A poor bluff, old man 
—a darn poor bluff. You ’re in love, pauvre en- 
ant, and I’m afraid that you ’re in a very bad 
ray. Come on, tell us the lady’s name, her pedi- 
ree, and list of charms.” 

Hugh grinned back at Gates. “Chase yourself,” 
e said gaily. “I won’t tell you a blamed thing 
bout her.” 

“You’d better,” said Jim Saunders from the 
epths of a leather chair. “Is she the jane whose 
icture adorns your desk?” 

“Yeah,” Hugh admitted. “How do you like 

er?” 

“Very fair, very fair.” Saunders was magnif- 
:ently lofty. “I’ve seen better, of course, but 
’ve seen worse, too. Not bad um, not very 

ad.” f ,. 

The “razzing” had started, and Hugh lost his 

;erve. . 

“Jim, you can go to hell,” he said definitely, pre- 
•ared to rush up-stairs before Saunders could re¬ 
ly. “You don’t know a queen when you see one. 
Vhy, Cynthia—” 


244 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“Cynthia!” four of the boys shouted. “So he 
name ’s Cynthia. That’s—” 

But Hugh was half-way up-stairs, embarrasse 
and delighted. 

The girls arrived on Thursday, the train whic 
brought most of them reaching Haydensville earl 
in the afternoon. Hugh paced up and down th 
station, trying to keep up a pretense of a converse 
tion with two or three others. He gave the wron 
reply twice and then decided to say nothing mort 
He listened with his whole body for the first whistl 
of the train, and so great was the chatter of the hur 
dreds of waiting youths that he never heard it. Sue 
denly the engine rounded a curve, and a minut 
later She train stopped before the station. Immt 
diately the boys began to mill around the platforr 
like cattle about to stampede, standing on thei 
toes to look over the heads of their comrades, shov 
ing, shouting, dancing in their impatience. 

Girls began to descend the steps of the cars. Th 
stampede broke. A youth would see “his girl” an< 
start through the crowd for her. Dozens spotte 
their girls at the same time and tried to run throug 
the crowd. They bumped into one another, laughe 
joyously, bumped into somebody else, and finall 
reached the girl. 

When Hugh eventually saw Cynthia standing on 
car platform near him, he shouted to her and hel< 
his hand high in greeting. She saw him and wave* 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


245 ; 

back, at the same time starting down the steps. 

She had a little scarlet hat pulled down over her 
:urly brown hair, and she wore a simple blue travel¬ 
ing-suit that set off her slender figure perfectly. 
Her eyes seemed bigger and browner than ever, her 
nose more impudently tilted, her mouth more su¬ 
premely irresistible. Her cheeks were daintly 
rouged, her eyebrows plucked into a thin arch. She 
vas New York from her small pumps to the ex- 
3ensively simple scarlet hat. 

Hugh dashed several people aside and grabbed 
ler hand, squeezing it unmercifully. 

“Oh, gee, Cynthia, I’m glad to see you. I 
:hought the darn train was never going to get 
lere. How are you? Gee, you’re looking great, 
vonderful. Where’s your suit-case?” He fairly 
stuttered in his excitement, his words toppling over 
*ach other. 

“I’m full of pep. You look wonderful. There’s 
ny suit-case, the big black one. Give the porter 
wo bits or something. I have n’t any change.” 

Hugh tipped the porter, picked up the suit-case 
vith one hand, and took Cynthia by the arm with 
he other, carefully piloting her through the noisy, 
iurging crowd of boys and girls, all of them talking 
it top speed and in high, excited voices. 

Once Hugh and Cynthia were off the platform 
h<?y could talk without shouting. 

“We’ve got to walk up the hill,” Hugh explained 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


246 

miserably. “I could n’t get a car for love nor 
money. I’m awfully sorry.” 

Cynthia did a dance-step and petted his arm hap¬ 
pily. “What do I care? I’m so—so damn glad 
to see you, Hugh. You look nicer ’n ever—just 
as clean and washed and sweet. Ooooh, look at him 
blush! Stop it or I ’ll have to kiss you right here. 
Stop it, I say.” 

But Hugh went right on blushing. “Go ahead,” 
he said bravely. “I wish you would.” 

Cynthia laughed. “Like fun you do. You’d 
die of embarrassment. But your mouth is an awful 
temptation. You have the sweetest mouth, Hugh. 
It’s so damn kissable.” 

She continued to banter him until they reached 
the fraternity house. “Where do I live?” she de¬ 
manded. “In your room, I hope.” 

“Yep. I’m staying down in Keller Hall with 
Norry Parker. His room-mate’s sick in the hospi¬ 
tal; so he’s got room for me. Norry’s going to 
see you later.” 

“Right-o. What do we do when I get six pound: 
of dirt washed off and some powder on my nose?” 

“Well, we ’re having a tea-dance here at the 
house at four-thirty; but we’ve got an hour til] 
then, and I thought we’d take a walk. I want tc 
show you the college.” 

After Cynthia had repaired the damages of travel 
and had been introduced to Hugh’s fraternity 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


247 

brothers and their girls, she and Hugh departed for 
a tour of the campus. The lawns were so green 
that the grass seemed to be bursting with color; 
the elms waved tiny new leaves in a faint breeze; 
the walls of the buildings were speckled with green 
patches of ivy. Cynthia was properly awed by the 
chapel and enthusiastic over the other buildings. 
She assured Hugh that Sanford men looked awfully 
smooth in their knickers and white flannels; in fact, 
she said the whole college seemed jake to her. 

They wandered past the lake and into the woods 
as if by common consent. Once they were out of 
sight of passers-by, Hugh paused and turned to Cyn¬ 
thia. Without a word she stepped into his arms 
and lifted her face to his. Hugh’s heart seemed 
to stop; he was so hungry for that kiss, he had 
waited so long for it. 

When he finally took his lips from hers, Cynthia 
whispered softly, “You’re such a good egg, Hugh 
boney, such a damn good egg.” 

Hugh could say nothing; he just held her close, 
tiis mind swimming dizzily, his whole being atingle. 
For a long time he held her, kissing her, now ten¬ 
derly, now almost brutally, lost in a thrill of passion. 

Finally she whispered faintly: “No more, 
Hugh. Not now, dear.” 

Hugh released her reluctantly. “I love you so 
damned hard, Cynthia,” he said huskily. ‘ I I 
:an’t keep my hands off of you.” 


248 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


•T know,” she replied. “But we’ve got to g( 
bacL Wait a minute, though. I must lool 
like the deviL” She straightened her hat 
powdered her nose, and then tucked her arm ii 
his. 

After the tea-dance and dinner, Hugh left her tc 
dress for the Dramatic Society musical comedy tha 
was to be performed that evening. He returnee 
to Norry Parker’s room and prepared to put on hi: 
Tuxedo. 

“You look as if somebody had left you a millior 
dollars,” Norry said to Hugh. “I don’t think . 
ever saw anybody look so happy. You—yoi 
shine.” 

Hugh laughed. “I am happy, Norry, happy a 
hell. I’m so happy I ache. Oh, God, Cynthia ’ 
wonderful. I’m crazy about her, Norry—plum 
crazy.” 

Norry had known Cynthia for years, and despit 
his ingenuousness, he had noticed some of her char 
acteristics. 

“I never expected you to fall in love with Cyr 
‘thia, Hugh,” he said in his gentle way. “I ’r 
awfully surprised.” 

Hugh was humming a strain from “Say it wit 
Music” while he undressed. He pulled off his trou 
sers and then turned to Norry, who was sitting o 
the bed. “What did you say? You said some 
thing, did n’t you?” 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


249 

Norry smiled. For some quite inexplicable rea¬ 
son, he suddenly felt older than Hugh. 

“Yes, I said something. I said that I never 
expected you to fall in love with Cynthia.” 

Hugh paused in taking off his socks. “Why 
lot?” he demanded. “She’s wonderful.” 

“You ’re so different.” 

“How different? We understand each other 
perfectly. Of course, we only saw each other for 
1 week when I was down at your place, but we 
anderstood each other from the first. I was crazy 
about her as soon as I saw her.” 

Norry was troubled. “I don’t think I can ex¬ 
plain exactly,” he said slowly. “Cynthia runs with 
a fast crowd, and she smokes and drinks—and 
fou ’re—well, you ’re idealistic.” 

Hugh pulled off his underclothes and laughed as 
le stuck his feet into slippers and drew on a bath¬ 
robe. “Of course, she does. All the girls do now. 
She’s just as idealistic as I am.” 

He wrapped the bath-robe around him and de¬ 
parted for the showers, singing gaily: 

“Say it with music, 

Beautiful music; 

Somehow they ’d rather be kissed 
To the strains of Chopin or Liszt. 

A melody mellow played on a cello 
Helps Mister Cupid along— 

So say it with a beautiful song. 


25 o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Shortly he returned, still singing the same song, 
his voice full and happy. He continued to sing as 
he dressed, paying no attention to Norry, completely 
lost in his own Elysian thoughts. 

To Hugh and Cynthia the musical comedy was a 
complete success, although the music, written by ar 
undergraduate, was strangely reminiscent of several 
recent Broadway song successes, and the plot of the 
comedy got lost after the first ten minutes and was 
never recovered until the last two. It was amusing 
to watch men try to act like women, and two of 
•the “ladies” of the chorus were patently drunk. 
Cleopatra, the leading lady, was a wrestler and 
looked it, his biceps swelling magnificently every 
time he raised his arms to embrace the comic Antony, 
It was glorious nonsense badly enough done to be 
really funny. Hugh and Cynthia, along with the 
rest of the audience, laughed joyously—and held 
hands. 

After the play was over, they returned to the 
Nu Delta house and danced until two in the morning. 
During one dance Cynthia whispered to him 
“Hugh, get me a drink or I ’ll pass out.” 

Hugh, forgetting his indignation of the year be¬ 
fore, went in search of Vinton and deprived that 
young man of a pint of gin without a scruple. He 
and Cynthia then sneaked behind the house and did 
away with the liquor. Other couples were drinking, 
all of them surreptitiously, Leonard Gates having 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


251 

[aid down the law in no uncertain manner, and all 
3f the brothers were a little afraid of Gates. 

Cynthia slept until noon the next day, and Hugh 
vent to his classes. In the afternoon they attended 
1 baseball game, and then returned to the fraternity 
louse for another tea-dance. The Prom was to be 
:hat night. Hugh assured Cynthia that it was go¬ 
ng to be a “wet party,” and that Vinton had sold 
lim a good supply of Scotch. 

The campus was rife with stories: this was the 
vettest Prom on record, the girls were drinking as 
nuch as the men, some of the fraternities had made ' 
:he sky the limit, the dormitories were being in¬ 
vaded by couples in the small hours of the night, 
md so on. Hugh heard numerous stories but paid 

10 attention to them. He was supremely happy, 
md that was all that mattered. True, several men 
lad advised him to bring plenty of liquor along to 
:he Prom if he wanted to have a good time, and he 
vas careful to act on their advice, especially as 
Cynthia had assured him that she would dance un- 

11 doomsday if he kept her “well oiled with hooch.” 

The gymnasium was gaily decorated for the Prom, 

he walls hidden with greenery, the rafters twined 
vith the college colors and almost lost behind hun- 
Ireds of small Japanese lanterns. The fraternity 
)ooths were made of fir boughs, and the orchestra 
datform in the middle of the floor looked like a 
mall forest of saplings. 


252 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


The girls were beautiful in the soft glow of th 
lanterns, their arms and shoulders smooth an< 
white; the men were trim and neat in their Tuxedos 
the dark suits emphasizing the brilliant colors o 
the girls’ gowns. 

It was soon apparent that some of the couples ha< 
got at least half “oiled” before the dance began 
and before an hour had passed many more couple 
gave evidence of imbibing more freely than wisely 
Occasionally a hysterical laugh burst shrilly abov 
the pounding of the drums and the moaning of th 
saxophones. A couple would stagger awkward! 
against another couple and then continue uneven! 
on an uncertain way. 

The stags seemed to be the worst offenders 
Many of them were joyously drunk, dashing dizzi! 
across the floor to find a partner, and once having 
taken her from a friend, dragging her about, hap 
pily unconscious of anything but the girl and th 
insistent rhythm of the music. 

The musicians played as if in a frenzy, the drum 
pound-pounding a terrible tom-tom, the saxophone 
moaning and wailing, the violins singing sensuously 
shrilly as if in pain, an exquisite searing pain. 

Boom, boom, boom, boom. “Stumbling al 
around, stumbling all around, stumbling all arouni 
so funny—” Close-packed the couples move 
slowly about the gymnasium, body pressed tight t 
body, swaying in place—boom, boom, boom, boon 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


253 

—“Stumbling here and there, stumbling every¬ 
where—” Six dowagers, the chaperons, sat in a 
orner, gossiped, and idly watched the young 
ouples. ... A man suddenly released his girl and 
aced clumsily for the door, one hand pressed to his 
louth, the other stretched uncertainly in front of 
im. 

Always the drums beating their terrible tom-tom, 
heir primitive, blood-maddening tom-tom. . . . 
loom, boom, boom, boom— “I like it just a little 
it, just a little bit, quite a little bit.” The music 
eased, and some of the couples disentangled them- 
elves; others waited in frank embrace for the 
rchestra to begin the encore. ... A boy slumped 
1 a chair, his head in his hands. His partner 
ought two friends. They helped the boy out of 
he gymnasium. 

The orchestra leader lifted his bow. The stags 
waited in a broken line, looking for certain girls, 
lie music began, turning a song with comic words 
ito something weirdly sensuous—strange syncopa- 
ons, uneven, startling drum-beats—a mad tom- 
om. The couples pressed close together again, 
waying, barely moving in place—boom, boom, 
00m, boom— “Second-hand hats, second-hand 
lothes— That’s why they call me second-hand 
lose. . . .” The saxophones sang the melody 
ith passionate despair; the violins played tricks 
with a broken heart; the clarinets rose shrill in pam; 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


254 

the drums beat on—boom, boom, boom, boom. . . 
A boy and girl sought a dark corner. He shield 
her with his body while she took a drink from 
flask. Then he turned his face to the corner ai 
drank. A moment later they were back on tl 
floor, holding each other tight, drunkenly swa 
ing . . . Finally the last strains, a wail of agony- 
“Ev-’ry one knows that I’m just Sec-ond-hai 
Rose—from Sec-ond Av-en-ue.” 

The couples moved slowly off the floor, tl 
pounding of the drums still in their ears and in the 
blood; some of them sought the fraternity booth 
some of the girls retired to their dressing-roor 
perhaps to have another drink; many of the m< 
went outside for a smoke and to tip a flask upwar 
Through the noise, the sex-madness, the hal 
drunken dancers, moved men and women qui 
sober, the men vainly trying to shield the worm 
from contact with any one who was drunk. The] 
was an angry light in those men’s eyes, but most < 
them said nothing, merely kept close to their p.ar 
ners, ready to defend them from any too asserti 
friend. 

Again the music, again the tom-tom of the drum 
On and on for hours. A man “passed out cole 
and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A gi 
got a “laughing jag” and shrieked with idiot 
laughter until her partner managed to lead her pr 
testing off the floor. On and on, the constai 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


255 


rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion 
screaming with lust, the drums, horribly primitive; 
drunken embraces. . . . “Oh, those Wabash Blues 
—I know I got my dues— A lone-some soul 
am I—I feel that I could die . . Blues, sob¬ 
bing, despairing blues. . . Orgiastic music- 

beautiful, hideous! “Can-dle light that gleams— 
Haunts me in my dreams . . .” The drums 
boom, boom, boom, booming— “I ’ll pack 
my walking shoes, to lose—those Wa-bash 
Blues . . 

Hour after hour—on and on. Flushed faces, 
breaths hot with passion and whisky . . . Pretty 
girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held 
! them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating 
! the whisky breaths of the girls . . . On and on, the 
drunken carnival to maddening music the passion, 

; the lust. 

Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by 
midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any 
! longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was 
aware of nothing but Cynthia’s body, her firm 
young body close to his. His blood beat with the 
pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and 
tighter—the gymnasium, the other couples, a sway¬ 
ing mist before his eyes. . 

When the dance ended, Cynthia whispered 
huskily, “Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh.” 

Strangely enough, he got the significance of her 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


2 56 

words at once. His blood raced, and he staggered 
so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by the arm. 

“Sure—sure; I ’ll—I ’ll ta-take you some-some- 
where. I—I, too, Cyntheea.” 

They walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, 
down the steps, and through the crowd of smokers 
standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was 
doing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was 
not more than fifty yards distant. 

He took a flask out of his pocket. “Jush one 
more drink,” he said thickly and emptied the bottle. 
Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the arm, he 
opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with 
her up the stairs to Norry Parker’s room. For¬ 
tunately the hallways were deserted, and no one 
saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, 
after searching blindly for the switch, finally clicked 
on the lights and mechanically closed the door be¬ 
hind him. 

He was very dizzy. He wanted another drink— 
and he wanted Cynthia. He put his arms around 
her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door 
of one of the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker 
stood watching them. He had spent the evening 
at the home of a musical professor and had re¬ 
turned to his room only a few minutes before. His 
face went white when he saw the embracing couple. 

“Hugh !” he said sharply. 

Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


257 

looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms 
from around Hugh’s neck and forced herself from 
his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room 
and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had 
just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in 
the study. 

“I ’ll see you home, Cynthia,” he said quietly. 
He took her arm and led her out of the room—and 
[locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them 
blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. 
Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning 
heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing. 

When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting 
on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry’s 
mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, 
holding it first at arm’s length and then drawing it 
closer and closer to him. No matter where he held 
it, he could not see what it was—and he was de¬ 
termined to see it. 

Norry walked up to him and reached for the 
photograph. 

“Give me that,” he said curtly. “Take your 
hands off my mother’s picture.” 

“It’s not,” Hugh exclaimed angrily; “it’s not. 
It’s my musher, my own mu-musher—my, my own 
dear musher. Oh, oh!” 

He slumped down in a heap and began to, sob 
bitterly, muttering, “Musher, musher, musher. 

Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolt- 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


258 


ing to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, 
apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot 
And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospital! 
Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was 
(bitterly disillusioned. 

“Get up,” he said briefly. “Get up and go to 
bed.” 

“Tha’s my musher. You said it was n’t my- 
my musher.” Hugh looked up, his face wet with 
maudlin tears. 

Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from 
him. “Take your dirty hands off of that,” he 
snapped. “Get up and go to bed.” 

“Tha’s my musher.” Hugh was gently 
persistent. 

“It’s not your mother. You make me sick. Go 
to bed.” Norry tugged at Hugh’s arm impotently; 
Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight. 

Norry’s gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, 
(filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then 
deliberately dashed the water into Hugh’s face. 
Then he repeated the performance. 

Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands won- 
deringly over his face. “I’m no good,” he said 
almost clearly. “I’m no good.” 

“You certainly are n’t. Come on; get up and go 
to bed.” Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this 
time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the 
table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet. 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


259 


“I’m a blot,” he declared mournfully; “I ’m no 
rood, Norry. I’m an—an excreeshence, an ex- 
:ree-shence, tha ’s what I am.” 

‘‘Something of the sort,” Norry agreed in disgust. 
‘Here, let me take off your coat.” 

“Leave my coat alone.” He pulled himself 
iway from Norry. “I’m no good. I’m an ex- 
;ree-shence. I’m goin’ t’ commit suicide; tha’s 
ivhat I’m goin’ t’ do. Nobody ’ll care ’cept my 
■nusher, and she would n’t either if she knew me. 
Dh, oh, I wish I did n’t use a shafety-razor. I ’ll 
tell you what to do, Norry.” He clung pleadingly 
to Norry’s arm and begged with passionate in¬ 
tensity. “You go over to Harry King’s room. 
He’s got a re-re—a pistol. You get it for me and 
I ’ll put it right here—” he touched his temple 
awkwardly—“and I ’ll—I ’ll blow my damn brains 
out. I’m a blot, Norry; I’m an ex-cree-shence.” 

1 Norry shook him. “Shut up. You’ve got to go 
to bed. You ’re drunk.” 

“I’m sick. I’m an ex-cree-shence.” The room 
was whizzing rapidly around Hugh, and he clung 
hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted him¬ 
self to be led into the bedroom and undressed, still 
loaning that he was an “ex-cree-shence. 

The bed pitched. He lay on his right side, 
clutching the covers in terror. He turned over on 
his back. Still the bed swung up and down sicken- 
ingly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and 


26 o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


the bed suddenly swung into rest, almost stable. Ir 
a few minutes he was sound asleep. 

He cut chapel and his two classes the next morn 
ing, one at nine and the other at ten o’clock; in fact 
it was nearly eleven when he awoke. His heac 
was splitting with pain, his tongue was furry, anc 
his mouth tasted like bilge-water. He made wn 
faces, passed his thick tongue around his dry moutl 
—oh, so damnably dry!—and pressed the palms o 
his hands to his pounding temples. He craved ; 
drink of cold water, but he was afraid to get out o 
bed. He felt pathetically weak and dizzy. 

Norry walked into the room and stood quieth 
looking at him. 

“Get me a drink, Norry, please,” Hugh begged 
“I’m parched.” He rolled over. “Ouch! God 
how my head aches!” 

Norry brought him the drink, but nothing les 
than three glasses even began to satisfy Hugh 
Then, still saying nothing, Norry put a cold com 
press on Hugh’s hot forehead. 

“Thanks, Norry old man. That’s awfully dam 
good of you.” 

Norry walked out of the room, and Hugh quick! 
fell into a light sleep. An hour later he woke up 
quite unaware of the fact that Norry had changei 
the cold compress three times. The nap had re 
freshed him. He still felt weak and faint; but hi 


THE PLASTIC AGE 261 

jad no longer throbbed, and his throat was less 
7 - 

“Norry,” he called feebly. 

“Yes?” Norry stood in the doorway. “Feeling 
itter ?” 

“Yes, some. Come sit down on the bed. I want 
' talk to you. But get me another drink first, 
ease. My mouth tastes like burnt rubber.” 
Norry gave him the drink and then sat down on 
e edge of the bed, silently waiting. 

“I’m awfully ashamed of myself, old man,” 
ugh began. “I—I don’t know what to say. I 
n’t remember much what happened. I remember 
•inging Cynthia up here and you coming in and 
en—well, I somehow can’t remember anything 
ter that. What did you do?” 

“I took Cynthia home and then came back and 
it you to bed.” Norry gazed at the floor and 
oke softly. 

“You took Cynthia home?” 

“Of course.” 

Hugh stared at him in awe. “But if you’d been 
en with her in the dorm, you’d have been fired 
om college.” 

“Nobody saw us. It’s all right,” 

Hugh wanted to cry. “Oh, Lord, Norry, you re 
hite,” he exclaimed. “The whitest fellow that 
er lived. You took that chance for me.” 


262 THE PLASTIC AGE 

“That’s all right.” Norry was painfully er 
barrassed. 

“And I’m such a rotter. You—you know wh 
we came up here for?” 

“I can guess.” Norry’s glance still rested on tl 
floor. He spoke hardly above a whisper. 

“Nothing happened. I swear it, Norry. 
meant to—but—-but you came—thank God! I w; 
awfully soused. I guess you think I ’m rottei 
Norry. I suppose I am. I don’t know how 
could treat you this way. Are you awfully angry r 

“I was last night,” Norry replied honestly, “bi 
I’m not this morning. I’m just terribly di 
appointed. I understand, I guess; I’m humai 
too—but I’m disappointed. I can’t forget th 
way you looked.” 

“Don’t!” Hugh cried. “Please don’t, Norn 
I—I can’t stand it if you talk that way. I’m s 
damned ashamed. Please forgive me.” 

Norry was very near to tears. “Of course, 
forgive you,” he whispered, “but I hope you won 
do it again.” 

“I won’t, Norry. I promise you. Oh, Goc 
I’m no good. That’s twice I’ve been stopped b 
an accident. I ’ll go straight now, though; 
promise you.” 

Norry stood up. “It’s nearly noon,” he sai 
more naturally. “Cynthia will be wondering wher 
you are.” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


263 

‘Cynthia! Oh, Norry, how can I face her?” 
‘You ’ve got to,” said the young moralist firmly. 
‘I suppose sp,” the sinner agreed, his voice 
;erably lugubrious. “God!” 

\fter three cups of coffee, however, the task did 
: seem so impossible. Hugh entered the Nu 
lta house with a fairly jaunty air and greeted the 
n and women easily enough. His heart skipped 
jeat when he saw Cynthia standing in the far 
ner of the living-room. She was wearing her 
rlet hat and blue suit. 

She saved him the embarrassment of opening the 
iversation. “Come into the library,” she said 
tly. “I want to speak to you.” 

Wondering and rather frightened, he followed 

‘I’m going home this afternoon,” she began, 
’ve got everything packed, and I’ve told every- 
dy that I don’t feel very well.” 

“You are n’t sick?” he asked, really worried. 

“Of course not, but I had to say something, 
e train leaves in an hour or two, and I want to 
ve a talk with you before I go.” ? 

“But hang it, Cynthia, think of what you re 
ssing. There’s a baseball game with Raleigh 
s afternoon, a tea-dance in the Union after that, 
; Musical Clubs concert this evening—I sing with 
• Glee club and Norry’s going to play a solo, and 
m in the Banjo Club, too—and we are going to 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


264 

have a farewell dance at the house after the c 
cert.” Hugh pleaded earnestly; but someh 
down in his heart he wished that she would 
stay. 

“I know, but I Ve got to go. Let’s go sor 
where-out in the woods where we can talk withi 
being disturbed.” 

Still protesting, he led her out of the hou 
across the campus, past the lake, and into the woo 
Finally they sat down on a smooth rock. 

“I ’m awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugl 
Cynthia began slowly, “but I’ve been doing so 
thinking, and I’ve just got to beat it.” She pauf 
a moment and then looked him square in the ey 
“Do you love me?” 

For an instant Hugh’s eyes dropped, and tl 
he looked up and lied like a gentleman. “Yes,” 
said simply; “I love you, Cynthia.” 

She smiled almost wearily and shook her he; 
“You are a good egg, Hugh. It was white of y 
to say that, but I know that you don’t love r 
You did yesterday, but you don’t now. Do y 
realize that you have n’t asked to kiss me to-day 

Hugh flushed and stammered: “I—I’ve got 
awful hang-over, Cynthia. I feel rotten.” 

“Yes, I know, but that is n’t why you did n’t m 
to kiss me. I know all about it. Listen, Hugl 
She faced him bravely. “I’ve been running w: 
a fast crowd for three years, and I’ve learned 


THE PLASTIC AGE 26 5j 

about fellows; and most of ’em that I’ve known 
re n’t your kind. How old are you?” 
“Twenty-one in a couple of months.” 

“I ’m twenty and lots wiser about some things 
m you are. I’ve been crazy about you—I guess 
:m kinda yet—and I know that you thought you 
re in love with me. I wanted you to have hold 
me all the time. That’s all that mattered. It 
s—was your body, Hugh. You ’re sweet and 
;, and I respect you, but I’m not the kid for 
1 to run around with. I’m too fast. I woke up 
ly this morning, and I’ve done a lot of thinking 
:e. You know what we came near doing last 
ht? Well, that’s all we want each other for. 
: ’re not in love.” 

\ phrase from the bull sessions rushed into 
igh’s mind. “You mean—sex attraction?” he 
led in some embarrassment. He felt weak and 
id. He seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a 
lam. Nothing was real—and everything was a 
e sad. 

Yes, that’s it—and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don’t 
nt that with you. We ’re not the same kind at 
I used to think that when I got your letters, 
netimes I hardly understood them, but I d close 
;eyes and see you so strong and blond and clean, 

: I’d imagine you were holding me tight and 
( then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love 
L but we’ve spoiled it.” She wanted des- 


266 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

perately to cry but bit her lip and held back 
tears. 

“I think I know what you mean, Cynthia,” F 
said softly. “I don’t know much about love anc 
attraction and that sort of thing, but I know tl 
was happier kissing you than I’ve ever been ir 
life. I—I wish that last night hadn’t happe 
I hate myself.” 

“You need n’t. It was more my fault than y( 
I’m a pretty bad egg, I guess; and the booze 
you holding me was too much. I hate myself, 
I’ve spoiled the nicest thing that ever happene 
me.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright 
tears. “I did love you, Hugh. I loved yo 
much as I could love any one.” 

Hugh put his arms around her and drew ht 
him. Then he bent his head and kissed her ge 
There was no passion in his embrace, but there 
infinite tenderness. He felt spiritually and ] 
ically weak, as if all his emotional resources 
been quite spent. ^ 

“I think that I love you more than I ever 
before,” he whispered. 

If he had shown any passion, if there had 
any warmth in his kiss, Cynthia might have bel 
him, but she was aware only of his gentleness, 
pushed him back and drew out of his arms. 

“No,” she said sharply; “you don’t love 








THE PLASTIC AGE 267 

ou ’re just sorry for me. . . . You ’re just kind.” 
Hugh had read “Marpessa” many times, and a 
te from it came to make her attitude clear: 

“thou wouldst grow kind; 

Most bitter to a woman that was loved.” 

“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know,” he said 
serably. “Let’s not call everything off now, 
Imthia. Let’s wait a while.” 

“No!” She stood up decisively. “No. I hate 
ose ends.” She glanced at her tiny wrist-watch, 
f I’m going to make that train, I’ve got to 
rry. We’ve got barely half an hour. Come, 
lugh. Be a sport.” 

He stood up, his face white and weary, his blue 
res dull and sad. 

“Just as you say, Cynthia,” he said slowly. “But 
’m going to miss you like hell.” 

(She did not reply but started silently for the path. 
5 followed her, and they walked back to the 
iternity house without saying a word, both busy 
1 rh unhappy thoughts. 

When they reached the fraternity, she got her 
it-case, handed it to him, declined his offer of a 
j;i, and walked unhappily by his side down the 
l that they had climbed so gaily two days before, 
igh had just time to get her ticket before the 
in started. 



268 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

She paused a moment at the car steps and hel 
out her hand. “Good-by, Hugh,” she said softl] 
her lips trembling, her eyes full of tears. 

“Good-by, Cynthia,” he whispered. And ther 
foolishly, “Thanks for coming.” 

She did not smile but drew her hand from his an 
mounted the steps. An instant later she was insid 
the car and the train was moving. 

Numbed and miserable, Hugh slowly climbed th 
hill and wandered back to Norry Parker’s roorr 
He was glad that Norry was n’t there. He pace 
up and down the room a few minutes trying t 
think. Then he threw himself despairingly on 
couch, face down. He wanted to cry; he had neve 
wanted so much to cry—and he could n’t. Ther 
were no tears—and he had lost something ver 
precious. He thought it was love; it was only hi 
dreams. 





iPpfss 








Vi 



a 

•*N» 

Vi 

a: 

E 

$ 

$ 


ONE TURN, HUGH, AND WE’LL QUIT THESE JOINTS FOR GOOD!” 















' 




‘ 





















' 





.. 





















. 







. 






CHAPTER XXIII 


F OR several days Hugh was tortured by 
doubt and indecision: there were times 
when he thought that he loved Cynthia, 
times when he was sure that he didn’t; when he 
lad just about made up his mind that he hated her, 
ie found himself planning to follow her to New 
Rochelle; he tried to persuade himself that his 
:onduct was no more reprehensible than that of 
iis comrades, but shame invariably overwhelmed 
iis arguments; there were hours when he ached 
for Cynthia, and hours when he loathed her for 
smashing something that had been beautiful. 
Most of all, he wanted comfort, advice, but he 
cnew no one to whom he was willing to give his 
:onfidence. Somehow, he could n’t admit his 
drunkenness to any one whose advice he valued, 
hie called on Professor Henley twice, intending to 
make a clean breast of his transgressions. Henley, 
he knew, would not lecture him, but when he found 
himself facing him, he could not bring himself 
to confession; he was afraid of losing Henley s 
respect. 

Finally, in desperation, he talked to Norry, not 
269 


270 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


because he thought Norry could help him but be¬ 
cause he had to talk to somebody and Norry 
already knew the worst. They went walking far 
out into the country, idly discussing campus gossip 
or pausing to revel in the beauty of the night, the 
clear, clean sky, the pale moon, the fireflies spar¬ 
kling suddenly over the meadows or even to the 
tree-tops. Weary from their long walk, they sat 
down on a stump, and Hugh let the dam of his 
emotion break. 

“Norry,” he began intensely, “I’m in hell—in 
hell. It’s a week since Prom, and I have n’t had 
a line from Cynthia. I have n’t dared write to 
her.” 

“Why not?” 

“She—she—oh, damn it!—she told me before 
she left that everything was all off. That’s why 
she left early. She said that we did n’t love each 
other, that all we felt was sex attraction. I don’t 
know whether she’s right or not, but I miss her 
like the devil. I—I feel empty, sort of hollow in¬ 
side, as if everything had suddenly been poured 
out of me—and there’s nothing to take its place. 
I was full of Cynthia, you see, and now there’s no 
Cynthia. There’s nothing left but—oh, God, 
Norry, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel—dirty.” 
The last word was hardly audible. 

Norry touched his arm. “I know, Hugh, and 
I’m awfully sorry. I think, though, that Cynthia 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


271 

was right. I know her better than you do. She’s 
an awfully good kid but not your kind at all. I 
think I feel as badly almost as you do about it.” 
He paused a moment and then said simply, “I was 
so proud of you, Hugh.” 

‘‘Don’t!” Hugh exclaimed. “I want to kill my¬ 
self when you say things like that.” 

“You don’t understand. I know that you don’t 
understand. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking 
since Prom, too. I Ve thought over a lot of things 
that you’ve said to me—about me, I mean. Why, 
Hugh, you think I’m not human. I don’t believe 
you think I have passions like the rest of you. 
Well, I do, and sometimes it’s—it’s awful. I’m 
telling you that so you ’ll understand that I know 
how you feel. But love’s beautiful to me, Hugh, 
the most wonderful thing in the world. I was in 
love with a girl once—and I know. She did n t 
give a hang for me; she thought I was a baby. I 
suffered awfully; but I know that my love was 
beautiful, as beautiful as—” He looked around 
for a simile—“as to-night. I think it’s because of 
that that I hate mugging and petting and that sort 
of thing. I don’t want beauty debased. I want 
to fight when orchestras jazz famous arias. Well, 
petting is jazzing love; and I hate it. Do you see 
what I mean?” 

Hugh looked at him wonderingly. He did n’t 
know this Norry at all. “Yes,” he said slowly; 


272 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“yes, I see what you mean; I think I do, anyway. 
But what has it to do with me?” 

“Well, I know most of the fellows pet and all 
that sort of thing, and they don’t think anything 
about it. But you ’re different; you love beautiful 
things as much as I do. You told me yourself that 
Jimmie Henley said last year that you were gifted. 
You can write and sing and run, but I ’ve just 
realized that you are n’t proud of those things at 
all; you just take them for granted. And you’re 
ashamed that you write poetry. Some of your 
poems are good, but you have n’t sent any of them 
to the poetry magazine. You don’t want anybody 
to know that you write poetry. You ’re trying to 
make yourself like fellows that are inferior-to you.” 

Norry was piteously in earnest. His hero had 
crumbled into clay before his eyes, and he was try¬ 
ing to patch him together again preparatory to 
boosting him back upon his pedestal. 

“Oh, cripes, Norry,” Hugh said a little im¬ 
patiently, “you exaggerate all my virtues; you 
always have. I’m not half the fellow you think 
I am. I do love beautiful things, but I don’t be¬ 
lieve my poetry is any good.” He paused a 
moment and then confessed mournfully: “I’ll 
admit, though, that I have been going downhill. 

I’m going to do better from now on. You watch 

^ »» 
me. 

They talked for hours, Norry embarrassing 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


273 

Hugh with the frankness of his admiration. Nor- 
ry’s hero-worship had always embarrassed him, 
but he did n’t like it when the worshiper began to 
criticize. He admitted the justness of the criticism, 
but it hurt him just the same. Perching on a 
pedestal had been uncomfortable but a little thrill¬ 
ing; sitting on the ground and gazing up at his perch 
was rather humiliating. The fall had bruised him; 
and Norry, with the best intentions in the world, 
was kicking the bruises. 

Nevertheless, he felt better after the talk, deter¬ 
mined to win back Norry’s esteem and his own. 
He swore off smoking and drinking and stuck to his 
oath. He told Vinton that if he brought any more 
liquor to their room one of them was going to be 
carried out, and that he had a hunch that it would 
be Vinton. Vinton gazed at him with round eyes 
and believed him. After that he did his drinking 
elsewhere, confiding to his cronies that Carver was 
on the wagon and that he had got as religious as 
holy hell. “He won’t let me drink in my. own 
room,” he wailed dolorously. And then with a 
sudden burst of clairvoyance, he added, “I guess 
his girl has given him the gate. 

For weeks the campus buzzed with talk about 
the Prom. A dozen men who had been detected 
flagrante delicto were summarily expelled. Many 
others who had been equally guilty were in a con¬ 
stant state of mental goose-flesh. Would the next 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


274 

mail bring a summons from the dean? President 
Culver spoke sternly in chapel and hinted that 
there would be no Prom the coming year. Most 
of the men said that the Prom had been an “awful 
brawl,” but there were some who insisted that it 
was no worse than the Proms held at other colleges, 
and recited startling tales in support of their ar¬ 
gument. 

Leonard Gates finally settled the whole matter 
for Hugh. There had been many discussions in 
the Nu Delta living-room about the Prom, and in 
one of them Gates ended the argument with a sane 
and thoughtful statement. 

“The Prom was a brawl,” he said seriously, “a 
drunken brawl. We all admit that. The fact that 
Proms at other colleges are brawls, too, does n’t 
make ours any more respectable. If a Yale man 
happens to commit murder and gets away with it, 
that is no reason that a Harvard man or a San¬ 
ford man should commit murder, too. Some of 
you are arguing like babies. But some of you are 
going to the other extreme. 

“You talk as if everybody at the Prom was lit. 
Well, I wasn’t lit, and as a matter of fact most 
of them were n’t lit. Just use a little common 
sense. There were three hundred and fifty couples 
at the Prom. Now, not half of them even had a 
drink. Say that half did. That makes one hun¬ 
dred and seventy-five fellows. If fifty of those 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


275 

fellows were really soused, I ’ll eat my hat, but 
we ’ll say that there were fifty. Fifty were quite 
enough to m^ke the whole Prom look like a long¬ 
shoreman’s ball. You’ve got to take the musi 
into consideration, too. That orchestra could 
eertainly play jazz; it could play it too damn well. 
Why, that music was enough to make a saint shed 
his halo and shake a shimmy. 

“What I’m getting to is this: there are over a 
thousand fellows in college, and out of that thou¬ 
sand not more than fifty were really soused at the 
Prom, and not more than a hundred and seventy- 
dve were even a little teed. To go around say¬ 
ing that Sanford men are a lot of muckers just be¬ 
cause a small fraction of them acted like gutter- 
jrnps is sheer bunk. The Prom was a drunken 
mawl, but all Sanford men are n’t drunkards—not 
)y a damn sight.” 

Hugh had to admit the force of Gates’s reason- 
ng, and he found comfort in it. He had been just 
ibout ready to believe that all college men and San- 
*ord men in particular were hardly better than com- 
non muckers. But in the end the comfort that he 
^ot was small: he realized bitterly that he was one 
if the minority that had disgraced his college; he 
vas one of the gutter-pups. The recognition of 
hat undeniable fact cut deep. 

He was determined to redeem himself; he had 
o, somehow. Living a life of perfect rectitude 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


276 

was not encfcigh; he had to do something that would 
win back his own respect and the respect of his 
fellows, which he thought, quite absurdly, that he 
had forfeited. So far as he could see, there was 
only one way that he could justify his existence at 
Sanford; that was to win one of the dashes in the 
Sanford-Raleigh meet. He clung to that idea with 
the tenacity of a fanatic. 

He had nearly a month in which to train, and 
train he did as he never had before. His diet be¬ 
came a matter of the utmost importance; a rub- 
down was a holy rite, and the words of Jansen, the 
coach, divine gospel. He placed in 'both of the 
preliminary meets, but he knew that he could do 
better; he was n’t yet in condition. 

When the day for the Raleigh-Sanford meet 
finally came, he did not feel any of the nervousness 
that had spelled defeat for him in his freshman 
year. He was stonily calm, silently deter¬ 
mined. He was going to place in the hundred and 
will the two-twenty or die in the attempt. No 
golden dreams of breaking records excited him. 
Calvert of Raleigh was running the hundred con¬ 
sistently in ten seconds and had been credited with 
better time. Hugh had no hopes of defeating him 
in the hundred, but there was a chance in the two- 
twenty. Calvert was a short-distance man, the 
shorter the better. Two hundred and twenty 
yards was a little too far for him. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 277 

Calvert did not look like a runner. He was a 
>od two inches shorter than Hugh, who lacked 
arly that much of six feet. Calvert was heavily 
ilt—a dark, brawny chap, both quick and power- 

l . Hugh looked at him and for a moment hated 

m. Although he did not phrase it so—in fact, 
did not phrase it at all—Calvert was his obstacle 
his race for redemption. 

Calvert won the hundred-yard dash in ten 
i:onds flat, breaking the Sanford-Raleigh record, 
ugh, running faster than he ever had in his life, 
rely managed to come in second ahead of his 
im-mate Murphy. The Sanford men cheered 
n lustily, but he hardly listened. He had to win 
2 two-twenty. 

At last the runners were called to the starting- 
ie. They danced up and down the track flexing 
bir muscles. Hugh was tense but more deter- 
ened than nervous. Calvert pranced around 
;;ily; he seemed entirely recovered from his great 
ort in the hundred. Finally the starter called 
L*m to their marks. They tried their spikes in 
h starting-holes, scraped them out a bit more, 

: de a few trial dashes, and finally knelt in line at 
I: command of the starter. 

Hugh expected Calvert to lead for the first hun- 
:d yards; but the last hundred, that was where 
ilvert would weaken. Calvert was sure to be 
?ad at the beginning—but after that! 




278 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“On your marks. 

“Set.” 

The pistol cracked. The start was perfect; th 
five men leaped forward almost exactly together 
For once Calvert had not beaten the others off th 
mark, but he immediately drew ahead. He wa 
running powerfully, his legs rising and falling i] 
exact rhythm, his spikes tearing into the cinde 
path. But Hugh and Murphy were pressing hin 
close. At the end of the first hundred Calvert let 
by a yard. Hugh pounded on, Murphy falling be 
hind him. The others were hopelessly outclassed 
Hugh did not think; he did not hear a thousant 
men shouting hysterically, “Carver! Carver!’ 
He saw nothing but Calvert a yard ahead of him 
He knew nothing but that he had to make up tha 
yard. Down the track they sped, their bread 
bursting from them, their hands clenched, thei 
faces grotesquely distorted, their legs driving then 
splendidly on. 

Hugh was gaining; that yard was closing. H 
sensed it rather than saw it. He saw nothing now 
not even Calvert. Blinded with effort, his lung 
aching, his heart pounding terribly, he fought on 
mechanically keeping between the two white lines 
Ten yards from the tape he was almost abreast 0 
Calvert. He saw the tape through a red haze; b 
made a final valiant leap for it—but he neve] 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


279 

uched it: Calvert’s chest had broken it a tiny 
laction of a second before. 

Hugh almost collapsed after the race. Two 
!en caught him and carried him, despite his pro- 
sts, to the dressing-room. At first he was aware 
ily of his overwhelming weariness. Something 
ry important had happened. It was over, and 
: was tired, infinitely tired. A rub-down refreshed 
s muscles, but his spirit remained weary. For a 
onth he had thought of nothing but that race— 
en Cynthia had become strangely insignificant in 
mparison with it—and now that the race had 
en run and lost, his whole spirit sagged and 
ooped. 

He was pounded on the back; his hand was 
asped and shaken until it ached; he was cheered 
an echo by the thrilled Sanford men; but still 
s depression remained. He had won his letter, 
|: had run a magnificent race, all Sanford sang his 
;aise—Norry Parker had actually cried with ex- 
, ement and delight—but he felt that he had 
iiled; he had not justified himself. 

A few days later he entered Henley’s office, in- 
tiding to make only a brief visit. Henley con- 
latulated him. “You were wonderful, Hugh,” 
said enthusiastically. “The way that you 
awled up on him the last hundred yards was 
rilling. I shouted until I was hoarse. I never 



28 o 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


saw any one fight more gamely. He ’s a fast 
man than you are, but you almost beat him. I co 
gratulate you—excuse the word, please—on yo 
guts.” 

Somehow Hugh could n’t stand Henley’s enth 
siasm. Suddenly he blurted out the whole stor 
his drunkenness at the Prom, his split with Cynth 
—he did not mention the visit to Norry’s room- 
his determination to redeem himself, his feelii 
that if he had won that race he would at lea 
have justified his existence at the college, an 
finally, his sense of failure. 

Henley listened sympathetically, amused ar 
touched by the boy’s naive philosophy. He d 
not tell him that the race was relatively unimpc 
tant—he was sure that Hugh would find that o 
for himself—but he did bring him comfort. 

“You did not fail, Hugh,” he said gently ; “y ( 
succeeded magnificently. As for serving your c( 
lege, you can always serve it best by being you 
self, being true to yourself, I mean, and that mea 
being the very fine gentleman that you are.” P 
paused a minute, aware that he must be le 
personal; Hugh was red to the hair and gazing u 
happily at the floor. 

“You must read Browning,” he went on, “ar 
learn about his success-in-failure philosophy. P 
maintains that it is better to strive for a million ar 
miss it than to strive for a hundred and get it. ‘ 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


281 


an’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a 
*aven for?’ He says it in a dozen different ways, 
’s the man who tries bravely for something be- 
md his power that gets somewhere, the man who 
ally succeeds. Well, you tried for something 
jyond your power—to beat Calvert, a really great 
inner. You tried to your utmost; therefore, you 
icceeded. I admire your sense of failure; it 
eans that you recognize an ideal. But I think 
at you succeeded. You may not have quite 
stiffed yourself to yourself, but you have proved 
pable of enduring a hard test bravely. You have 
) reason to be depressed, no reason to be 
hamed.” 

They talked for a long time, and finally Henley 
■nfessed that he thought Cynthia had been wise 
taking herself out of Hugh’s life. 

“I can see,” he said, “that you are n’t telling me 
lite all the story. I don’t want you to, either. I 
dge, however, from what you have said that you 
*nt somewhere with her and that only complete 
unkenness saved you from disgracing both your- 
lf and her. You need no lecture, I am sure; you 
e sufficiently contrite. I have a feeling that she 
is right about sexual attraction being paramount; 
lid I think that she is a very brave girl. I like 
e way she went home, and I like the way she has 
pt silent. Not many girls could or would do 
at. It takes courage. From what you have 



282 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


said, however, I imagine that she is not your kin 
at least, that she is n’t the kind that is good f 
you. You have suffered and are suffering, I kno 
but I am sure that some day you are going to 
very grateful to that girl—for a good ma 
reasons.” 

Hugh felt better after that talk, and the end 
the term brought him a surprise that wiped out 1 
depression and his sense of failure. He four 
too, that his pain was growing less; the wound w 
healing. Perversely, he hated it for healing, a 
he poked it viciously to feel it throb. Agony h 
become sweet. It made life more intense, le 
beautiful, perhaps, but more wonderful, more re 
Romantically, too, he felt that he must be true be 
to his love and to his sorrow, and his love was h 
ing into a memory that was plaintively gray t 
shot with scarlet thrills—and his sorrow was bo 
ing before the relentless excitement of his da 
life. 

The surprise that rehabilitated him in his o 
respect was his election to the Boule, the seni 
council and governing board of the student boc 
It was the greatest honor that an undergrade 
could receive, and Hugh had in no way expect 
it. When Nu Delta had first suggested to h 
that he be a candidate, he had demurred, sayi 
that there were other men in his delegation betl 
fitted to serve and with better chances of electic 


THE PLASTIC AGE 283 

eonard Gates, however, felt otherwise; and he¬ 
re Hugh knew what had happened he was a 
ndidate along with thirty other juniors, only 
reive of whom could be elected. 

He took no part in the campaigning, attended 
me of the caucuses, was hardly interested in the 
aternity “combine” that promised to elect him. 
e did not believe that he could be elected; he 
w no reason why he should be. As a matter of 
ct, as Gates and others well knew, his chances 
:re more than good. Hugh was popular in his 
m right, and his great race in the Sanford- 
ileigh meet had made him something of a hero 
r the time being. Furthermore, he was a member 
both the Glee and Banjo Clubs, he had led his 
ss in the spring sings for three years, and he had 
respectable record in his studies. 

The tapping took place in chapel the last week 
classes. After the first hymn, the retiring 
mbers of the Boule rose and marched down the 
le to where the juniors were sitting. The new 
mbers were tapped in the order of the number 
votes that they had received, and the first man 
ped, having received the largest number of 
es, automatically became president of the Boule 
the coming year. 

Tugh’s interest naturally picked up the day of 
election, and he began to have faint hopes that 
would be the tenth or eleventh man. To his 


284 THE PLASTIC AGE 

enormous surprise he was tapped third, and 1 
marched down the aisle to the front seat reservi 
for the new members with the applause of his f< 
lows sweet in his ears. It did n’t seem possibl 
he was one of the most popular and most respect* 
men in his class. He could not understand 
but he did n’t particularly care to understand i 
the honor was enough. 

Nu Delta tried to heap further honors on hii 
but he declined them. As a member of Boule ] 
was naturally nominated for the presidency of t 3 
chapter. Quite properly, he felt that he was n 
fitted for such a position; and he retired in fav 
of John Lawrence, the only man in his delegatit 
really capable of controlling the brothers. La 1 
rence was a man like Gates. He woul 
Hugh knew, carry on the constructive work th 
Gates had so splendidly started. Nu Delta was 
the throes of one of those changes so characterise 
of fraternities. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T 


UGH spent his last college vacation at 
home, working on the farm, reading, 
occasionally dancing at Corley Lake, and 
inking a great deal. He saw Janet Harton, now 
let Moffitt, several tin/es at the lake and won- 
red how he could ever have adored her. She was 
1 childlike, still dainty and pretty, but to Hugh 
i was merely a talking doll, and he felt a little 
ry for her burly, rather stupid husband who lum- 
red about after her like a protecting watch-dog. 
He met plenty of pretty girls at the lake, but, 
ae said, he was “off women for good.” He was 
jiaid of them; he had been severely burnt, and 
ile the fire still fascinated him, it frightened 
i, too. Women, he was sure, were shallow 
rtures, dangerous to a man’s peace of mind 
l self-respect. They were all right to dance 
h and pet a bit; but that was all, absolutely 


le thought a lot about girls that summer and 
n more about his life after graduation from 
ege. What was he going to do? Life 
tched ahead of him for one year like a smooth, 
285 


286 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

flowered plain—and then the abyss. He felt pr 
pared to do nothing at all, and he was not swept l 
an overpowering desire to do anything in particula 
Writing had the greatest appeal for him, bi 
he doubted his ability. Teach? Perhaps. Bi 
teaching meant graduate work. Well, he woul 
see what the next year at college would show. E 
was going to take a course in composition wil 
Professor Henley, and if Henley thought his gif 
warranted it, he would ask his father for a year < 
two of graduate work at Harvard. 

College was pleasant that last year. It w; 
pleasant to wear a blue sweater with an orange S c 
it; it was pleasant, too, to wear a small white h 
that had a blue B on the crown, the insignia of tl 
Boule and a sign that he was a person to be r 
spected and obeyed; it was pleasant to be spok< 
to by the professors as one who had reach< 
something approaching manhood; life gene 
ally was pleasant, not so exciting as the thr 
preceding years but fuller and richer. Eai 
in the first term he was elected to Helmet, „an hon< 
society that possessed a granite “tomb,” a snu 
windowless building in which the members we 
supposed to discuss questions of great importan 
and practise secret rites of awe-inspiring wonde 
As a matter of fact, the monthly meetings we 
nothing but “bull fests,” or as one cynical memb 
put it, “We wear a gold helmet on our sweate 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


287 

d chew the fat once a month.” True enough, 
t that gold helmet glittered enticingly in the eyes 
every student who did not possess one. 

For the first time Hugh’s studies meant more 
him than the undergraduate life. He had 
3sen his instructors carefully, having learned 
>m three years of experience that the instructor 
,s far more important than the title of the course. 
2 had three classes in literature, one in music— 
rtly because it was a “snap” and partly because 
really wanted to know more about music—and 
1 composition course with Henley, to him the 
>st important of the lot. 

He really studied, and at the end of the first 
•m received three A’s and two B’s, a very credit- 
te record. What was more important than his 
:ord, however, was the fact that he was really 
joying his work; he was intellectually awakened 
d hungry for learning. 

Also, for the first time he really enjoyed the 
iternity. Jack Lawrence was proving an able 
esident,' and Nu Delta pledged a freshman dele¬ 
tion of which Hugh was genuinely proud. There 
re plenty of men in the chapter whom he did 
t like or toward whom he was indifferent, but he 
d learned to ignore them and center his interest 
those men whom he found congenial. 

The first term was ideal, but the second became 
maelstrom of doubt and trouble in which he 


-288 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


whirled madly around trying to find some phil 
ophy that would solve his difficulties. 

When Norry returned to college after the Chr; 
mas vacation, he told Hugh that he had st 
Cynthia. Naturally, Hugh was interested, and 1 
mere mention of Cynthia’s name was still enou 
to quicken his pulse. 

“How did she look?” he asked eagerly. 

“Awful.” 

“What! What’s the matter? Is she sick? 

Norry shook his head. “No, I don’t think s 
is exactly sick,” he said gravely, “but something 
the matter with her. You know, she has been [ 
ing an awful pace, tearing around like crazy, 
told you that, I know, when I came back in t 
fall. Well, she’s kept it up, and I guess she 
about all in. I could n’t understand it. Cynthia 
always run with a fast bunch, but she’s never h 
a bad name. She’s beginning to get one now.” 

“No!” Hugh was honestly troubled. “What 
the matter, anyway? Did n’t you try to stop her 

Norry smiled. “Of course not. Can y 
imagine me stopping Cynthia from doing anythi 
she wanted to do? But I did have a talk with h< 
She got hold of me one night at the country cl 
and pulled me off in a corner. She wanted to tc 
about you.” 

“Me?” Hugh’s heart was beginning to pour 
'“What did she say?” 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


289 

“She asked questions. She wanted to know 
lerything about you. I guess she asked me a 
lousand questions. She wanted to know how you 
loked, how you were doing in your courses, where 
!>u were during vacation, if you had a girl—oh, 
rerything; and finally she asked if you ever talked 
>out her?” 

“What did you say?” Hugh demanded breath- 
ssly. 

“I told her yes, of course. Gee, Hugh, I thought 
ie was going to cry. We talked some more, all 
)out you. She’s crazy about you, Hugh; I’m; 
ire of it. And I think that’s why she’s been hit- 
ng the high spots. I felt sorry as the devil for 
sr. Poor kid. ...” 

“Gee, that’s tough; that’s damn tough. Did 
le send me any message?” 

“No. I asked her if she wanted to send her 
>ve or anything, and she said she guessed not. I 
link she’s having an awful time, Hugh.” 

That talk tore Hugh’s peace of mind into quiver- 
ig shreds. Cynthia was with him every waking 
finute, and with her a sense of guilt that would not 
own. He knew that if he wrote .to her he might 
lvolve himself in a very difficult situation, but the 
jmptation was stronger than his discretion. He 
'anted to know if Norry was right, and he knew 
lat he would never have an hour’s real comfort 
ntil he found out. Cynthia had told him that she 


290 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


was not in love with him; she had said definite] 
that their attraction for each other was mere! 
sexual. Had she lied to him? Had she gon 
home in the middle of Prom week because sb 
thought she ought to save him from herself? H 
could n’t decide, and he felt that he had to knoy 
If Cynthia was unhappy and he was the cause 0 
her unhappiness, he wanted, he assured himself, t 
“do the right thing,” and he had very vague nc 
tions indeed of what the right thing might be. 

Finally he wrote to her. The letter took hir 
hours to write, but he flattered himself that it wa 
yery discreet; it implied nothing and demande 
nothing. 

Dear Cynthia: 

I had a talk with Norry Parker recently that has trouble 
me a great deal. He said that you seemed both unwel 
and unhappy, and he felt that I was in some way responsibl 
for your depression. Of course, we both know how ir 
genuous and romantic Norry is; he can find tragedy in 
cut finger. I recognize that fact, but what he told m 
has given me no end of worry just the same. 

Won’t you please write to me just what is wrong— i 
anything really is and if I have anything to do with it. 
shall continue to worry until I get your letter. 

Most sincerely, 

Hugh. 


Weeks went by and no answer came. Hugh’ 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


291 


)nfusion increased. He thought of writing her 
tiother letter, but pride and common sense for- 
ade. Then her letter came, and all of his props 
ere kicked suddenly from under him. 

Oh my dear, my dear [she wrote], I swore that I 
ould n’t answer your letter—and here I am doing it. 
’ve fought and fought and fought until I can’t fight any 
mger; I’ve held out as long as I can. Oh, Hugh my 
rarest, I love you. I can’t help it—I do, I do. I Ve 
ied so hard not to—and when I found that I couldn’t 
dp it I swore that I would never let you know—because 
knew that you did n’t love me and that I am bad for 
;>u. I thought I loved you enough to give you up—and 
might have succeeded if you had n’t written to me. 

Oh, Hugh dearest, I nearly fainted when I saw your 
tter. I hardly dared open it—I just looked and looked 
: your beloved handwriting. I cried when I did read it. 
thought of the letters you used to write to me—and this 
le was so different—so cold and impersonal. It hurt me 
readfully. 

I said that I would n’t answer it—I swore that I 
ould n’t. And then I read your old letters—I’ve kept 
rery one of them—and looked at your picture—and to- 
»ght you just seemed to be here—I could see your sweet 
nile and feel your dear arms around me—and Hugh, my 
arling, I had to write—I had to. 

My pride is all gone. I can’t think any more. You are 
Ll that matters. Oh, Hugh dearest, I love you so damned 
ard. 


Cynthia. 


292 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Two hours after the letter arrived it was f( 
lowed by a telegram: 

Don’t pay any attention to my letter. I was crazy wh 
I wrote it. 

Hugh had sense enough to pay no attention 1 
the telegram; he tossed it into the fireplace and r 
read the letter. What could he do? What shou t 
he do? He was torn by doubt and confusion. L 
looked at her picture, and all his old longing fc 
her returned. But he had learned to distrust th; 
longing. He had got along for a year withoi 
her; he had almost ceased thinking of her whe 
Norry brought her back to his mind. He had t 
answer her letter. What could he say? He pace 
the floor of his room, ran his hands through h 
hair, pounded his forehead; but no solution cam 
He took a long walk into the country and came bac 
more confused than ever. He was flattered fc 
her letter, moved by it; he tried to persuade hin 
self that he loved her as she loved him—and fc 
could not do it. His passion for her was no long* 
overpowering, and no amount of thinking coul 
make it so. In the end he temporized. H 
letter was brief. 

Dear Cynthia: 

There is no need, I guess, to tell you that your lett< 
swept me clean off my feet. I am still dizzy with coi 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


293 

fusion. I don’t know what to say, and I have decided that 
it is best for me not to say anything until I know my own 
mind. I could n’t be fair either to you or myself otherwise. 
And I want to be fair; I must be. 

Give me time, please. It is because I care so much for 
you that I ask it. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me 
for weeks. My silence won’t mean that I have forgotten 
you; it will mean that I am thinking of you. 

Sincerely, 

Hugh. 

Her answer came promptly: 

Hugh, my dear— 

I was a fish to write that letter—and I know that I ’ll 
lever forgive myself. But I could n’t help it—I just 
:ould n’t help it. I am glad that you are keeping your head 
because I’ve lost mine entirely. Take all the time you like. 
Do you hate me for losing my pride ? I do. 

Your stupid 
Cynthia. 

Weeks went by, and Hugh found no solution. 
He damned college with all his heart and soul. 
iVhat good had it done him anyway? Here he 
vas with a serious problem on his hands and he 
*ould n’t solve it any better than he could have when 
le was a freshman. Four years of studying and 
ectures and examinations, and the first time he 
nicked up against a bit of life he was licked. 

Eventually he wrote to her and told her that he 


294 


THE PLASTIC AGE 

was fonder of her than he was of any girl that he 
had ever known but that he did n’t know whether 
he was in love with her or not. “I have learned 
to distrust my own emotions,” he wrote, “and m} 
own decisions. The more I think the more be¬ 
wildered I become. I am afraid to ask you tc 
marry me for fear that I ’ll wreck both our lives 
and I’m afraid not to ask you for the same reason 
Do you think that time will solve our problem; 
I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” 

She replied that she was willing to wait just sc 
long as they continued to correspond; she said thal 
she could no longer bear not to hear from him. Sc 
they wrote to each other, and the tangle of theii 
relations became more hopelessly knotted. Cynthh 
never sent another letter so unguarded as her first 
but she made no pretense of hiding her love. 

As Hugh sank deeper and deeper into the bog o; 
confusion and distress, his contempt for his col 
lege “education” increased. One night in May h 
expressed that contempt to a small group of seniors 

“College is bunk,” said Hugh sternly, “pur 
bunk. They tell us that we learn to think. Rot 
I have n’t learned to think; a child can solve ; 
simple human problem as well as I can. Colleg 
has played hell with me. I came here four year 
ago a darned nice kid, if I do say so myself. I wa 
chock-full of ideals and illusions. Well, colleg 
has smashed most of those ideals and knocked th 


THE PLASTIC AGE 295 

llusions plumb to hell I thought, for example, 
hat all college men were gentlemen; well, most of 
hem are n t. I thought that all of them were in- 
elligent and hard students.” 

The group broke into loud laughter. “Me, 
00,” said George Winsor when the noise had 
bated. “I thought that I was coming to a regular 
ducational heaven, halls of learning and all that 
ort of thing. Why, it’s a farce. Here I am 
porting a Phi Bete key, an honor student if you 
lease, and all that I really know as a result of my 
ollege ‘education’ is the fine points of football and 
ow to play poker. I don’t really know one damn 
fling about anything.” 

The other men were Jack Lawrence and Pudge 
amieson. Jack was an earnest chap, serious and 
ard working but without a trace of brilliance, 
le, too, wore a Phi Beta Kappa key, and so did 
’udge. Hugh was the only one of the group who 
ad not won that honor; the fact that he was the 
nly one who had won a letter was hardly, he felt, 
Dmplete justification. His legs no longer seemed 
lore important than his brains; in fact, when he 
ad sprained a tendon and been forced to drop 
*ack, he had been genuinely pleased 1 . 

Pudge was quite as plump as he had been as a 
•eshman and quite as jovial, but he did not tell 
) many smutty stories. He still persisted in cross- 
ig his knees in spite of the difficulties involved. 


296 THE PLASTIC AGE 

When Winsor finished speaking, Pudge forced his 
legs into his favorite position for them and then 
twinkled at Winsor through his glasses. 

“Right you are, George,” he said in his quick 
way. “I wear a Phi Bete key, too. We both be- 
long to the world’s greatest intellectual fraternity, 
but what in hell do we know? We’ve all majored 
in English except Jack, and I ’ll bet any one of us 
can give the others an exam offhand that they can’t 
pass. I’m going to law school. I hope to God 
that I learn something there. I certainly don’t feel 
that I know anything now as a result of my four 
years of ‘higher education.’ ” 

“Well, if you fellows feel that way,” said Hugh 
mournfully, “how do you suppose I feel? I made 
my first really good record last term, and that 
was n’t any world beater. I’ve learned how to 
gamble and smoke and drink and pet in college, but 
that’s about all that I have learned. I’m not as 
fine as I was when I came here. I’ve been coars¬ 
ened and cheapened; all of us have. I take things 
for granted that shocked me horribly once. I know 
that they ought to shock me now, but they don’t. 
I’ve made some friends and I’ve had a wonderful 
time, but I certainly don’t feel that I have got any 
other value out of college.” 

Winsor could not sit still and talk. He filled his 
pipe viciously, lighted it, and then jumped up and 
leaned against the mantel. “I admit everything 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


297 

that’s been said, but I don’t believe that it is alto¬ 
gether our fault.” He was intensely in earnest, and 
so were his listeners. “Look at the faculty. 
When I came here I thought that they were all wise 
men because they were on the faculty. Well, I ’ve 
found out otherwise. Some of them know a lot 
and can’t teach, a few of them know a lot and can 
teach, some of them know a little and can’t teach, 
and some of them don’t know anything and can’t 
explain c-a-t. Why, look at Kempton. That 
freshman, Larson, showed me a theme the other 
day that Kempton had corrected. It was full of 
errors that were n’t marked, and it was nothing in 
the world but drip. Even Larson knew that, but 
he’s the foxy kid; he wrote the theme about Kemp¬ 
ton. All right—Kempton gives him a B and tells 
him that it is very amusing. Hell of a lot Larson’s 
learning. Look at Kane in math. I had him 
when I was a freshman.” 

“Me, too,” Hugh chimed in. 

“ ’Nough said, then. Math’s dry enough, God 
knows, but Kane makes it dryer. He s a born 
desiccator. He could make ‘Hamlet as dry as 
calculus.” 

“Right-o,” said Pudge. “But MitcheU could 
make calculus as exciting as ‘Hamlet.’ It’s fifty 
fifty.” 

“And they fired Mitchell.” Jack Lawrence 
spoke for the first time. “I have that straight. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


298 

The administration seems afraid of a man that can 
teach. They Ve made Buchanan a full professor, 
and there is n’t a man in college who can tell what 
he’s talking about. He’s written a couple of 
books that nobody reads, and that makes him a 
scholar. I was forced to take three courses with 
him. They were agony, and he never taught me a 
damn thing.” 

“Most of them don’t teach you a damn thing,” 
Winsor exclaimed, tapping his pipe on the mantel. 
“They either tell you something that you can find 
more easily in a book, or just confuse you with a 
lot of ponderous lectures that put you to sleep or 
drive you crazy if you try to understand them.” j 

“There are just about a dozen men in this col¬ 
lege worth listening to,” Hugh put in, “and I’ve 
got three of them this term. I’m learning more 
than I did in my whole three first years. Let’s be 
fair, though. We ’re blaming it all on the profs, 
and you know damn well that we don’t study. All 
we try to do is to get by—I don’t mean you Phi 
Betes; I mean all the rest of us—and if we can put 
anything over on the profs we are tickled pink. 
We ’re like a lot of little kids in grammar-school. 
Just look at the cheating that goes on, the copying 
of themes, and the cribbing. It’s rotten!” 

Winsor started to protest, but Hugh rushed on. 
“Oh, I know that the majority of the fellows don’t 
consciously cheat; I’m talking about the copying of 


THE PLASTIC AGE 299 

math problems and the using of trots and the para¬ 
phrasing of ‘Literary Digest’ articles for themes and 
all that sort of thing. If more than half of the 
fellows don’t do that sort of thing some time or 
other in college, I ’ll eat my hat. And we all know 
darned well that we are n’t supposed to do it, but 
the majority of fellows cheat in some way or other 
before they graduate! 

“We are n’t so much. Do you remember, 
George, what Jimmie Henley said to us when we 
were sophomores in English Thirty-six? He laid 
us out cold, said that we were as standardized as 
Fords and that we were ashamed of anything intel¬ 
lectual. Well, he was right. Do you remember 
how he ended by saying that if we were the cream 
of the earth, he felt sorry for the skimmed milk— 
or something like that?” 

“Sure, I remember,” Winsor replied, running his 
fingers through his rusty hair. “He certainly 
pulled a heavy line that day. He was right, too.” 

“I ’ll tell you what,” exclaimed Pudge suddenly, 
so suddenly that his crossed legs parted company 
and his foot fell heavily to the floor. “Let’s put it 
up to Henley in class to-morrow. Let’s ask him 
straight out if he thinks college is worth while. 

“He ’ll hedge,” objected Lawrence. “All the 
orofs do if you ask them anything like that. 

Winsor laughed. “You don’t know Jxmmie 
Henley. He won’t hedge. You Ve never nad a 


3 oo THE PLASTIC AGE 

class with him, but Hugh and Pudge and I are all 
in English Fifty-three, and we ’ll put it up to him. 
He ’ll tell us what he thinks all right, and I hope to 
God that he says it is worth while. I’d like to 
have somebody convince me that I’ve got some¬ 
thing out of these four years beside lower ideals. 
Hell, sometimes I think that we ’re all damn fools. 
We worship athletics-—no offense, Hugh above 
everything else; we gamble and drink and talk like 
bums; and about every so often some fellow has to 
go home because a lovely lady has left him with 
bitter, bitter memories. I’m with Henley. If 
we ’re the cream of the earth—well, thank the 
Lord, we ’re not.” 

“Who is,” Lawrence asked earnestly. 

“God knows.” 


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CARL FORGETS HIS ANIMOSITY IN HONEST ADMIRATION FOR HUGH. 














CHAPTER XXV 


ENGLISH 53 had only a dozen men in it; 
so Henley conducted the course in a very 
I A informal fashion. The men felt free to 
bring up for discussion any topic that interested 
them. 

Nobody was surprised, therefore, when George 
Winsor asked Henley to express his opinion of the 
value of a college education. He reminded Henley 
of what he had said two years before, and rapidly 
gave a resume of the discussion that resulted in the 
question he was asking. “We ’d like to know, 
too,” he concluded, grinning wickedly, “just whom 
you consider the cream of the earth. You re¬ 
member you said that if we were you felt sorry for 
the skimmed milk.” 

Henley leaned back in his chair and laughed. 
“Yes,” he said, “I remember saying that. I did n’t 
think, though, that you would remember it for two 
years. You seem to remember most of what I 
said. I am truly astonished.” He grinned back 
at Winsor. “The swine seem to have eaten the 
pearis.” 

The class laughed, but Winsor was not one to 
301 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


302 

refuse the gambit. “They were very indigestible,’^ 
he said quickly. 

“Good!” Henley exclaimed. “I wanted them to 
give you a belly-ache, and I am delighted that you 
still suffer.” 

“We do,” Pudge Jamieson admitted, “but we’d 
like to have a little mercy shown to us now. We ’ve 
spent four years here, and while we’ve enjoyed 
them, we’ve just about made up our jninds that 
they have been all in all wasted years.” 

“No.” Henley was decisive. His playful 
manner entirely disappeared. “No, not wasted. 
You have enjoyed them, you say. Splendid justifi* 
cation. You will continue to enjoy them as the 
years grow between you and your college days. 
All men are sentimental about college, and in that 
sentimentality there is continuous pleasure. 

“Your doubt delights me. Your feeling that 
you have n’t learned anything delights me, too. It 
proves that you have learned a great deal. It is 
only the ignoramus who thinks he is wise; the wise 
man knows that he is an ignoramus. That’s a 
platitude, but it is none the less true. I have cold 
comfort for you: the more you learn, the less con¬ 
fident you will be of your own learning, the more 
utterly ignorant you will feel. I have never known 
so much as the day I graduated from high school. 
I held my diploma and the knowledge of the ages 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


303 

in my hand. I had never heard of Socrates, but I 
would have challenged him to a debate without the 
slightest fear. 

“Since then I have grown more humble, so 
humble that there are times when I am ashamed to 
come into the class-room. What right have I to 
teach anybody anything? I mean that quite sin¬ 
cerely. Then I remember that, ignorant as I am, 
the undergraduates are more ignorant. I take 
heart and mount the rostrum ready to speak with 
the authority of a pundit.” 

He realized that he was sliding off on a tangent 
and paused to find a new attack. Pudge Jamieson 
helped him. 

“I suppose that’s all true/’ he said, “but it 
does n’t explain why college is really worth while. 
The fact remains that most of us don’t learn any¬ 
thing, that we are coarsened by college, and that we 
—well, we worship false gods.” 

Henley nodded in agreement. “It would be 
hard to deny your assertions,” he acknowledged, 
“and I don’t think that I am going to try to deny 
them. Of course, men grow coarser while they are 
in college, but that doesn’t mean that they 
would n’t grow coarser if they were n’t in college. 
It isn’t college that coarsens a man and destroys 
his illusions; it is life. Don’t think that you can 
grow to manhood and retain your pretty dreams. 


394 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


You have become disillusioned about college. In 
the next few years you will suffer further disil¬ 
lusionment. That is the price of living. 

“Every intelligent man with ideals eventually 
becomes a cynic. It is inevitable. He has stand¬ 
ards, and, granted that he is intelligent, he can¬ 
not fail to see how far mankind falls below those 
standards. The result is cynicism, and if he is 
truly intelligent, the cynicism is kindly. Having 
learned that man is frail, he expects little of him: 
therefore, if he judges at all, his judgment is tem¬ 
pered either with humor or with mercy.” 

The dozen boys were sprawled lazily in theii 
chairs, their feet resting on the rungs of the chairs 
before them, but their eyes were fastened keenly 
on Henley. All that he was saying was of the 
greatest importance to them. They found comfort 
in his words, but the comfort raised new doubts, 
new problems. 

“How does that affect college?” Winsor asked. 

“It affects it very decidedly,” Henley replied 
“You haven’t become true cynics yet; you expect 
too much of college. You forget that the men whc 
run the college and the men who attend it are at 
best human beings, and that means that very mud 
cannot be expected of them. You do worship'false 
gods. I find hope in the fact that you recognize 
the stuff of which your gods are made. I have 
great hopes for the American colleges, not because 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


305 


I. have any reason to believe that the faculties will 
become wiser or that the administrations will lead 
the students to true gods; not at all, but I do think 
that the students themselves will find a way. They 
have already abandoned Mammon; at least, the 
most intelligent have, and I begin to see signs of 
less adoration for athletics. Athletics, of course, 
have their place, and some of the students are be¬ 
ginning to find that place. Certainly the alumni 
have n’t, and I don’t believe that the administrative 
officers have, either. Just so long as athletes 
advertise the college, the administrations will coddle 
them. The undergraduates, however, show signs 
of frowning on professionalism, and the stupid 
athlete is rapidly losing his prestige. An athlete 
has to show something more than brawn to be a 
hero among his fellows nowadays.” 

He paused, and Pudge spoke up. “Perhaps you 
are right,” he said, “but I doubt it. Athletics are 
certainly far more important to us than anything 
else, and the captain of the football team is always 
the biggest man in college. But I don’t care par¬ 
ticularly about that. What I want to know is how 
the colleges justify their existence. I don’t see 
that you have proved that they do.” 

“No, I have n’t,” Henley admitted, “and I don’t 
know that I can prove it. Of course, the colleges 
are n’t perfect, not by a long way, but as human in¬ 
stitutions go, I think they justify their existence. 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


306 

The four years spent at college by an intelligent 
boy—please notice that I say intelligent—are well 
spent indeed. They are gloriously worth while. 
You said that you have had a wonderful time. 
Not so wonderful as you think. It is a strange 
feeling that we have about our college years. We 
all believe that they are years of unalloyed happi¬ 
ness, and the further we leave them behind the 
more perfect they seem. As a matter of fact, few 
undergraduates are truly happy. They are going 
through a period of storm and stress; they are torn 
by Weltschmerz . Show me a nineteen-year-old boy 
who is perfectly happy and you show me an idiot. 
I rarely get a cheerful theme except from freshmen. 
Nine tenths of them are expressions of deep con¬ 
cern and distress. A boy’s college years are the 
years when he finds out that life isn’t what he 
thought it, and the finding out is a painful experi¬ 
ence. He discovers that he and his fellows are 
made of very brittle day: usually he loathes himself; 
often he loathes his fellows. 

“College isn’t the Elysium that it is painted in 
stories and novels, but I feel sorry for any intelligent 
man who did n’t have the opportunity to go to col¬ 
lege. There is something beautiful about one’s 
college days, something that one treasures all his 
life. As we grow older, we forget the hours of 
storm and stress, the class-room humiliations, the 
terror of examinations, the awful periods of doubt 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


307 


of God and man—we forget everything but athletic 
victories, long discussions with friends, campus 
sings, fraternity life, moonlight on the campus, and 
everything that is romantic. The sting dies, and 
the beauty remains. 

“Why do men give large sums of money to 
their colleges when asked? Because they want to 
help society? Not at all. The average man 
does n’t even take that into consideration. He 
gives the money because he loves his alma mater, 
because he has beautiful and tender memories of 
her. No, colleges are far from perfect, tragically 
far from it, but any institution that commands 
loyalty and love as colleges do cannot be wholly 
imperfect. There is a virtue in a college that un¬ 
inspired administrative officers, stupid professors, 
and alumni with false ideals cannot kill. At times 
I tremble for Sanford College; there are times 
when I swear at it, but I never cease to love it.” 

“If you feel that way about college, why did you 
say those things to us two years ago?” Hugh asked. 

“Because they were true, all true. I was talking 
about the undergraduates then, and I could have 
said much more cutting things and still been on the 
safe side of the truth. There is, however, another 
side, and that is what I am trying to give you now 
—rather incoherently, I know.” 

Hugh thought of Cynthia. “I suppose all that 
you say is true,” he admitted dubiously, “but I can’t 


308 THE PLASTIC AGE 

feel that college does what it should for us. We 
are told that we are taught to think, but the 
minute we bump up against a problem in living we 
are stumped just as badly as we were when we are 
freshmen.” 

“Oh, no, not at all. You solve problems every 
day that would have stumped you hopelessly as a 
freshman. You think better than you did four 
years ago, but no college, however perfect, can 
teach you all the solutions of life. There are no 
nostrums or cure-alls that the colleges can give for 
all the ills and sicknesses of life. You, I am afraid, 
will have to doctor those yourself.” 

“I see.” Hugh did n’t altogether see. Both 
college and life seemed more complicated than he 
had thought them. “I am curious to know,” he 
added, “just whom you consider the cream of the 
earth. That expression has stuck in my mind. I 
don’t know why—but it has.” 

Henley smiled. “Probably because it is such a 
very badly mixed metaphor. Well, I consider the 
college man the cream of the earth.” 

“What?” four of the men exclaimed, and all of 
them sat suddenly upright. 

“Yes—but let me explain. If I remember rightly, 
I said that if you were the cream of the earth, I 
hoped that God would pity the skimmed milk. 
Well, everything taken into consideration, I do think 
that you are the cream of the earth; and I have no 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


309 

lope for the skimmed milk. Perhaps it is n’t wise 
or me to give public expression to my pessimism, 
)ut you ought to be old enough to stand it. 

u The average college graduate is a pretty poor 
ipecimen, but all in all he is just about the best we 
lave. Please remember that I am talking in aver- 
iges. I know perfectly well that a great many 
jrilliant men do not come to college and that a 
jreat many stupid men do come, but the colleges 
jet a very fair percentage of the intelligent ones 
tnd a comparatively small percentage of the stupid 
mes. In other words, to play with my mixed 
netaphor a bit, the cream is very thin in places and 
he skimmed milk has some very thick clots of 
ream, but in the end the cream remains the cream 
md the milk the milk. Everything taken into con- 
ideration, we get in the colleges the young men 
nth the highest ideals, the loftiest purpose. 

“You want to tell me that those ideals are low 
nd the purpose materialistic and selfish. I know 
t, but the average college graduate, I repeat, has 
oftier ideals and is less materialistic than the aver¬ 
se man who has not gone to college. I wish that 
could believe that the college gives him those 
deals. I can’t, however. The colleges draw the 
test that society has to offer; therefore, they grad- 
tate the best.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” a student interrupted. 
How about Edison and Ford and 


3 io 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“And Shakspere and Sophocles,” Henley con 
eluded for him. “Edison is an inventive genius 
and Ford is a business genius. Genius has n’t any 
thing to do with schools. The colleges, however 
could have made both Ford and Edison bigger men 
though they could n’t have made them lesser gen 
iuses. 

“No, we must not take the exceptional man as 
standard; we’ve got to talk about the average 
The hand of the Potter shook badly when he mad 
man. It was at best a careless job. But He mad 
some better than others, some a little less weak, 
little more intelligent. All in all, those are the me, 
that come to college. The colleges ought to do 
thousand times more for those men than they d 
do; but, after all, they do something for them, an( 
I am optimistic enough to believe that the tim 
will come when they will do more. 

“Some day, perhaps,” he concluded very ser 
ously, “our administrative officers will be true edu 
cators; some day perhaps our faculties will be wis 
men really fitted to teach; some day perhaps ou 
students will be really students, eager to learn 
honest searchers after beauty and truth. That da 
will be the millennium. I look for the undergrac 
uates to lead us to it.” 





CHAPTER XXVI 

T HE college year swept rapidly to its close, 
so rapidly to the seniors that the days 
seemed to melt in their grasp. The twen- 
eth of June would bring them their diplomas and 
le end of their college life. They felt a bit chesty 
t the thought of that B.S. or A.B., but a little senti- 
lental at the thought of leaving “old Sanford.” 
uddenly everything about the college became in- 
aitely precious—every tradition; every building, no 
tatter how ugly; even the professors, not just the 
^serving few—all of them. 

Hugh took to wandering about the campus, 
>metimes alone, thinking of Cynthia, sometimes 
ith a favored crony such as George Winsor or 
udge Jamieson. He did n’t see very much of 
orry the last month or two of college. He was 
st as fond of him as ever, but Norry was only a 
nior; he would not understand how a fellow felt 
tout Sanford when he was on the verge of leaving 
r. But George and Pudge did understand. The 
ys did n’t say much as they wandered around 
e buildings, merely strolled along, occasionally 
:using to laugh over some experience that had 


312 THE PLASTIC AGE 

happened to one of them in the building they wer 
passing. 

Hugh could never pass Surrey Hall without fee 
ing something deeper than sentimentality. He a 
ways thought of Carl Peters, from whom he had nc 
heard for more than a year. He understood Ca: 
better now, his desire to be a gentleman and h 
despair at ever succeeding. Surrey Hall hel 
drama for Hugh, not all of it pleasant, but he ha 
a deeper affection for the ivy-covered dormitoi 
then he would ever have for the Nu Delta hous 
He wondered what had become of Morse, tl 
homesick freshman. Poor Morse. . . . And tl 
bull sessions he had sat in in old Surrey. He ha 
learned a lot from them, a whole lot. . . . 

The chapel where he had slept and surreptitious 
eaten doughnuts and read “The Sanford New! 
suddenly became a holy building, the building th 
housed the soul of Sanford. . . . He knew that I 
was sentimental, that he was investing buildin 
with a greater significance than they had in tht 
own right, but he continued to dream over the la 
four years and to find a melancholy beauty in 1 
own sentimentality. If it hadn’t been for Cynthi 
he would have been perfectly happy. 

Soon the examinations were over, and the und< 
classmen began to depart. Good-by to all 1 
friends who were not seniors. Good-by to Nor 
Parker. “Thanks for the congratulations, c 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


3i3 

nan. Sorry I can’t visit you this summer. Can’t 
Vou spend a month with me on the farm ... ?” 
Good-by to his fraternity brothers except the few 
eft in his own delegation. u Good-by, old man, 
|ood-by . . . Sure, I ’ll see you next year at the re¬ 
union.” Good-by. . . . Good-by. . . . 

Sad, this business of saying good-by, damn sad. 
Gee, how a fellow would miss all the good old eggs 
hie had walked with and drunk with and bulled 
with these past years. Good eggs, all of them— 
damn good eggs. . . . God! a fellow couldn’t ap¬ 
preciate college until he was about to leave it. Oh, 
for a chance to live those four years over again. 
“Would I live them differently? I ’ll say I would.” 

Good-by, boyhood. . . . Commencement was 
coming. Hugh had n’t thought before of what 
that word meant. Commencement! The begin¬ 
ning. What was he going to do with this com¬ 
mencement of his into life? Old Pudge was going 
to law school and so was Jack Lawrence. George 
Winsor was going to medical school. But what 
was he going to do? He felt so pathetically un¬ 
prepared. And then there was Cynthia. . . . 
What was he going to do about her? She rarely 
left his mind. How could he tackle life when he 
could n’t solve the problem she presented? It was 
like trying to run a hundred against fast men when 
a fellow had only begun to train. 

Henley had advised him to take a year or so at 




3H 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


Harvard if his father proved willing, and his father 
was more than willing, even eager. He guessed 
that he’d take at least a year in Cambridge. Per- 
haps he could find himself in that year. Maybe he 
could learn to write. He hoped to God he 
could. . . . 

Just before commencement his relations with 
Cynthia came to a climax. They had been con¬ 
stantly becoming more complicated. She was de¬ 
manding nothing of him, but her letters were tinged 
with despair. He felt at last that he must see her. 
Then he would know whether he loved her or not. 
A year before she had said that he did n’t. How 
did she know? She had said that all he felt for 
her was sex attraction. How did she know that? 
Why, she had said that was all that she felt for 
him. And he had heard plenty of fellows argue 
that love was nothing but sexual attraction anyway, 
and that all the stuff the poets wrote was pure bunk. 
Freud said something like that, he thought, and 
Freud knew a damn sight more about it than the 
poets. 

Yet, the doubt remained. Whether love was 
merely sexual attraction or not, he wanted some¬ 
thing more than that; his every instinct demanded 
something more. He had noticed another thing: 
the fellows that were n’t engaged said that love was 
only sexual attraction; those who were engaged 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


3i5 

vehemently denied it, and Hugh knew that some of 
he engaged men had led gay lives in college. He 
ould not reach any decision; at times he was sure 
hat what he felt for Cynthia was love; at other 
imes he was sure that it was n’t. 

I At last in desperation he telegraphed to her that 
ie was coming to New York and that she should 
neet him at Grand Central at three o’clock the 
lext day. He knew that he ought n’t to go. He 
/ould be able to stay in New York only a little 
lore than two hours because his father and mother 
/ould arrive in Haydensville the day following, and 
e felt that he had to be there to greet them. He 
iamned himself for his impetuousness all during 
he long trip, and a dozen times he wished he were 
ack safe in the Nu Delta house. What in hell 
/ould he say to Cynthia, anyway? What would 
e do when he saw her? Kiss her? “I won’t 
ave a damned bit of sense left if I do.” 

She was waiting for him as he came through the 
ate. Quite without thinking, he put down his bag 
nd kissed her. Her touch had its old power; his 
lood leaped. With a tremendous effort of will 
e controlled himself. That afternoon was all- 
uportant; he must keep his head. 

“It’s sweet of you to come,” Cynthia whispered, 
linging to him, “so damned sweet.” 

“It’s damned good to see you,” he replied 
.ruffly. “Come on while I check this bag. I’ve 


316 THE PLASTIC AGE 

only got a little over two hours, Cynthia; I Ve gol 
to get the five-ten back. My folks will be in Hay 
densville to-morrow morning, and I Ve got to ge; 
back to meet them.” 

Her face clouded for an instant, but she tuckec 
her arm gaily in his and marched with him acros: 
the rotunda to the checking counter. When Hug! 
had disposed of his bag, he suggested that they g( 
to a little tea room on Fifty-seventh Street. Sh< 
agreed without argument. Once they were in ; 
taxi, she wanted to snuggle down into his arm, bu 
she restrained herself; she felt that she had to pla 
fair. 

Hugh said nothing. He was trying to think 
and his thoughts whirled around in a mad, drunke 
dance. He believed that he would be marriei 
before he took the train back, at least engaged, an 
what would all that mean? Did he want to ge 
married? God! he didn’t know. 

When at last they were settled in a corner o 
the empty tea-room and had given their order, the 
talked in an embarrassed fashion about their recer 
letters, both of them carefully quiet and restrainec 
Finally Hugh shoved his plate and cup aside an 
looked straight at her for the first time. She wc 
thin, much thinner than she had been a year ag< 
but there was something sweeter about her, toe 
she seemed so quiet, so gentle. 

* “We are n’t going to get anywhere this way, Cy 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


3*7 

hia,” he said desperately. “We ’re both evading. 

’ have n’t any sense left, but what I say from now 
>n I am going to say straight out. I swore on the 
rain that I wouldn’t kiss you. I knew that I 
yould n’t be able to think if I did—and I can’t; all 
f know is that I want to kiss you again.” He 
looked at her sitting across the little table from 
turn, so slender and still—a different Cynthia but 
llamnably desirable. “Cynthia,” he added hoarsely, 
[‘if you took my hand, you could lead me to 
L ell.” 

I She in turn looked at him. He was much older 
han he had been a year before. Then he had been 
i boy; now he seemed a man. He had not changed 
particularly; he was as blond and young and clean 
s ever, but there was something about his mouth 
nd eyes, something more serious and more stern, 
hat made him seem years older. 

“I don’t want to lead you to hell, honey,” she 
eplied softly. “I left Prom last year so that I 
/ould n’t do that. I told you then that I was n’t 
ood for you—but I’m different now.” 

“I can see that. I don’t know what it is, but 
ou ’re different, awfully different. He leaned 
orward suddenly. “Cynthia, shall we go over to 
ersey and get married? I understand that^one 
an there right away. We ’re both of age 

“Wait, Hugh; wait.” Cynthia’s hands were 
ghtly clasped in her lap. “Are you sure that you 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


3i8 

want to ? I Ve been thinking a lot since I got you 
telegram. Are you sure you love me?” 

He slumped back into his chair. “I don’t kno\ 
what love is,” he confessed miserably. “I can’ 
find out.” Cynthia’s hands tightened in her lap 
“I’ve tried to think this business out, and I can’l 
I have n’t any right to ask you to marry me. 
have n’t any money, not a bit, and I’m not pre 
pared to do anything, either. As I wrote you, m 
folks want me to go to Harvard next year.” Th 
mention of his poverty and of his inability to sup 
port a wife brought him back to something ap 
proaching normal again. “I suppose I’m just 
kid, Cynthia,” he added more quietly, “but sonu 
times I feel a thousand years old. I do righ 
now.” 

“What were your plans for next year and afte 
that until you saw me?” Her eyes searched his. 

“Oh, I thought I’d go to Harvard a year or tw 
and then try to write or perhaps teach. Writing ’ 
slow business, I understand, and teaching does n 
pay anything. I don’t want to ask my father 
support us, and I won’t let your folks. I lost m 
head when I suggested that we get married, 
would be foolish. I have n’t the right.” 

“No,” she agreed slowly; “no, neither of us ha 
the right. I thought before you came if you aske 
me to marry you—I was sure somehow that yo 
would—I would run right off and do it, but now 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


3i9 


blow that I won’t.” She continued to gaze at 
him, her eyes troubled and confused. What made 
him seem so much older, so different? 

“Do you think we can ever forget Prom?” She 
waited for his reply. So much depended on it. 

; “Of course,” he answered impatiently. “I’ve 
forgotten that already. We were crazy kids, 
chat’s all—youngsters trying to act smart and 
wild.” 

“Oh!” The ejaculation was soft, but it vibrated 
with pain. “You mean that—that you wouldn’t 
—well, you wouldn’t get drunk like that again?” 

“Of course not, especially at a dance. I’m not a 
child any longer, Cynthia. I have sense enough 
now not to forfeit my self-respect again. I hope 
so, anyway. I have n’t been drunk in the last year. 
A drunkard is a beastly sight, rotten. If I have 
learned anything in college, it is that a man has to 
respect himself, and I can’t respect any one any 
longer who deliberately reduces himself to a beast. 
[ was a beast with you a year ago. I treated you 
tike a woman of the streets, and I abused Norry 
Parker’s hospitality shamefully. If I can help it, 
I ’ll never act like a rotter again. I hate a prig, 
Cynthia, like the devil, but I hate a rotter even 
more. I hope I can learn to be neither.” 

| As he spoke, Cynthia clenched her hands so 
lightly that the finger-nails were bruising her tender 
1 cairns, but her eyes remained dry and her lips did 



320 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


not tremble. If he could have seen her on some 
parties this last year. . . . 

“You have changed a lot.” Her words were 
barely audible. “You have changed an awful lot.” 

He smiled. “I hope so. There are times now 
when I hate myself, but I never hate myself so 
much as when I think of Prom. I’ve learned a 
lot in the last year, and I hope I’ve learned enough 
to treat a decent girl decently. I have never apol¬ 
ogized to you the way I think I ought to.” 

“Don’t!” she cried, her voice vibrant with pain. 
“Don’t! I was more to blame than you were. 
Let’s not talk about that.” 

“All right. I’m more than willing to forget it.” 
He paused and then continued very seriously, “I 
can’t ask you to marry me now, Cynthia—but— 
but are you willing to wait for me? It may take 
time, but I promise I ’ll work hard.” 

Cynthia’s hands clenched convulsively. “No, 
Hugh honey,” she whispered; “I’ll never marry 
you. I—I don’t love you.” 

“What?” he demanded, his senses swimming in 
hopeless confusion. “What?” 

She did not say that she knew that he did not 
love her; she did not tell him how much his quixotic 
chivalry moved her. Nor did she tell him that she 
knew only too well that she could lead him to hell, 
as he said, but that that was the only place that 
she could lead him. These things she felt positive 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


321 


of, but to mention them meant an argument—and 
an argument would have been unendurable. 

“No,” she repeated, “I don’t love you. You see, 
you ’re so different from what I remembered. 
You’ve grown up and you’ve changed. Why, 
Hugh, we ’re strangers. I’ve realized that while 
you’ve been talking. We don’t know each other, 
not a bit. We only saw each other for a week 
summer before last and for two days last spring. 
Now we ’re two altogether different people; and we 
don’t know each other at all.” 

She prayed that he would deny her statements, 
that he would say they knew each other by instinct 
—anything, so long as he did not agree. ^ 

“I certainly don’t know you the way you ’re talk¬ 
ing now,” he said almost roughly, his pride hurt 
and his mind in a turmoil. “I know that we 
don’t know each other, but I never thought that 
you thought that mattered. _ 

Her hands clenched more tightly for an instant 
—and then lay open and limp in her lap. 

Her lips were trembling; so she smiled. i 
didn’t think it mattered until you asked me to 
marry you. Then I knew it did. It was game or 
you to offer to take a chance, but I’m not that 
game. I couldn’t marry a strange man. 1 like 
that man a lot, but I don’t love him-and you don t 
want me to marry you if I don’t love you, do you, 
Hugh?” 


322 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“Of course not.” He looked down in earnest 
thought and then said softly, his eyes on the table, 
“I’m glad that you feel that way, Cynthia.” She 
bit her lip and trembled slightly. “I ’ll confess 
now that I don’t think that I love you, either. You 
sweep me clean off my feet when I’m with you, but 
when I’m away from you I don’t feel that way. 
I think love must be something more than we feel 
for each other.” He looked up and smiled boyishly. 
“We ’ll go on being friends anyhow, won’t we?” 

Somehow she managed to smile back at him. 
“Of course,” she whispered, and then after a brief 
pause added: “We had better go now. Your train 
will be leaving pretty soon.” 

Hugh pulled out his watch. “By jingo, so it 
will.” 

He called the waiter, paid his bill, and a few 
minutes later they turned into Fifth Avenue. They 
had gone about a block down the avenue when 
Hugh saw some one a few feet ahead of him who 
looked familiar. Could it be Carl Peters? By 
the Lord Harry, it was! 

“Excuse me a minute, Cynthia, please. There’s 
a fellow I know.” 

He rushed forward and caught Carl by the arm. 
Carl cried, “Hugh, by God!” and shook hands with 
him violently. “Hell, Hugh, I’m glad to see you.” 

Hugh turned to Cynthia, who was a pace behind 
them. He introduced Carl and Cynthia to each 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


323 

>ther and then asked Carl why in the devil he 
bad n’t written. 

Carl switched his leg with his cane and grinned. 
‘You know darn well, Hugh, that I don’t write 
letters, but I did mean to write to you; I meant to 
}ften. I’ve been traveling. My mother and I 
have just got back from a trip around the world. 
Where are you going now?” 

“Oh, golly,” Hugh exclaimed, “I’ve got to hurry 
if I’m going to make that train. Come on, Carl, 
with us to Grand Central. I’ve got to get the live- 
ten back to Haydensville. My folks are coming 
up to-morrow for commencement.” Instantly he 
hated himself. Why did he have to mention com¬ 
mencement? He might have remembered that it 
should have been Carl’s commencement, too. 

Carl, however, did not seem in the least dis¬ 
turbed, and he cheerfully accompanied Hugh and 
Cynthia to the station. He looked at Cynthia and 
had an idea. 

“Have you checked your bag? 

“Yes,” Hugh replied. 

“Well, give me the check and I ’ll get it for you. 
I ’ll meet you at the gate.” 

Hugh surrendered the check and then proceeded 
to the gate with Cynthia. He turned to her and 
asked gently, “May I kiss you, Cynthia? 

For an instant she looked down and said nothing; 
then she turned her face up to his. He kissed her 



324 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


tenderly, wondering why he felt no passion, afraid 
that he would. 

“Good-by, Cynthia dear,” he whispered. 

Her hands fluttered helplessly about his coat 
lapels and then fell to her side. She managed a 
brave little smile. “Good-by—honey.” 

Carl rushed up with the bag. “Gosh, Hugh, 
you Ve got to hurry; they’re closing the gate.” 
He gripped his hand for a second. “Visit me at 
Bar Harbor this summer if you can.” 

“Sure. Good-by, old man. Good-by Cynthia.” 

“Good-by-—good-by.” 

Hugh slipped through the gate and turned to 
wave at Carl and Cynthia. They waved back, and 
then he ran for the train. 

On the long trip to Haydensville Hugh relaxed. 
Now that the strain was over, he felt suddenly 
weak, but it was sweet weakness. He could gradu¬ 
ate in peace now. The visit to New York had 
been worth while. And what do you know, bump¬ 
ing into old Carl like that! Cynthia and he were 
friends, too, the best friends in the world, but she 
no longer wanted to marry him. That was 
fine. . . . He remembered the picture she and* 
Carl had made standing on the other side of the 
gate from him. “What a peach of a pair. Golly, 
would n’t it be funny if they hit it off . . 

He thought over every word that he and Cyn¬ 
thia had said. She certainly had been square all 



THE PLASTIC AGE 


325 

right. Not many like her, but “by heaven, I knew 
down in my heart all the time that I did n’t want 
to get married or even engaged. It would have 
played hell with everything.” 




CHAPTER XXVII 


T HE next morning Hugh’s mother and fa¬ 
ther arrived in the automobile. He was 
to drive them back to Merrytown the day 
after commencement. At last he stood in the 
doorway of the Nu Delta house and welcomed his 
father, but he had forgotten all about that youthful 
dream. He was merely aware that he was enor¬ 
mously glad to see the “folks” and that his father 
seemed to be withering into an old man. 

As the under-classmen departed, the alumni be¬ 
gan to arrive. The “five year” classes dressed in 
extraordinary outfits—Indians, Turks, and men in 
prison garb roamed the campus. There were 
youngsters just a year out of college, still looking 
like undergraduates, still full of college talk. The 
alumni ranged all the way from these one-year men 
to the fifty-year men, twelve old men who had come 
back to Sanford fifty years after their graduation, 
and two of them had come all the way across the 
continent. There had been only fifty men origi¬ 
nally in that class; and twelve of them were back. 

What brought them back? Hugh wondered. 
He thought he knew, but he could n’t have given a 
326 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


3*7 


eason. He watched those old men wandering 
lowly around the campus, one of them with his 
grandson who was graduating this year, and he was 
iwed by their age and their devotion to their alma 
nater. Yes, Henley had been right. Sanford was 
: ar from perfect, far from it—a child could see 
hat—but there was something in the college that 
gripped one’s heart. What faults that old college 
lad; but how one loved her! 

Thousands of Japanese lanterns had been strung 
around the campus; an electric fountain sparkled 
md splashed its many-colored waters; a band 
!;eemed to be playing every hour of the day and 
light from the band-stand in front of the Union, 
[t was a gay scene, and everybody seemed superbly 
lappy except, possibly, the seniors. They pre- 
:ended to be happy, but all of them were a little sad, 
L little frightened. College had been very beauti- 
jful—and the “world outside,” what was it? What 
did it have in store for them? 

There were mothers and fathers there to see 
:heir sons receive their degrees, there were the 
drives and children of the alumni, there were sisters 
and fiancees of the seniors. Nearly two thou¬ 
sand people; and at least half of the alumni drunk 
most of the time. Very drunk, many of them, and 
vtvy foolish, but nobody minded. Somehow every 
Dne seemed to realize that in a few brief days they 
svere trying to recapture a youthful thrill that had 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


328 

gone forever. Some of the drunken ones seemec 
very silly, some of them seemed almost offensive; al 
of them were pathetic. 

They had come back to Sanford where they hac 
once been so young and exuberant, so tireless in 
pleasure, so in love with living; and they were try¬ 
ing to pour all that youthful zest into themselves 
again out of a bottle bought from a bootlegger, 
Were they having a good time? Who knows? 
Probably not. A bald-headed man does not par¬ 
ticularly enjoy looking at a picture taken in his 
hirsute youth; and yet there is a certain whimsical 
pleasure in the memories the picture brings. 

For three days there was much gaiety, much sing¬ 
ing of class songs, constant parading, dances, 
speech-making, class circuses, and endless shaking 
of hands and exchanging of reminiscences. The 
seniors moved through all the excitement quietly, 
keeping close to their relatives and friends. Grad¬ 
uation was n’t so thrilling as they had expected if 
to be; it was more sad. The alumni seemed to be 
having a good time; they were ridiculously boyish: 
only the seniors were grave, strangely and unnat¬ 
urally dignified. 

Most of the alumni left the night before the 
graduation exercises. The parents and fiancees re¬ 
mained. They stood in the middle of the campus 
and watched the seniors, clad in caps and gowns, 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


329 

ine up before the Union at the orders of the class 
marshal. 

Finally, the procession, the grand marshal, a pro¬ 
cessor, in the lead with a wand in his hand, then 
President Culver and the governor of the State, 
Fen the men who were to receive honorary de¬ 
grees—a writer, a college president, a philanthro¬ 
pist, a professor, and three politicians—then the 
[faculty in academic robes, their many-colored hoods 
[brilliant against their black gov/ns. And last the 
seniors, a long line of them marching in twos headed 
by their marshal. 

The visitors streamed after them into the chapel. 
The seniors sat in their customary seats, the faculty 
and the men who were to receive honorary degrees 
on a platform that had been built at the altar. 
After they were seated, everything became a blur 
to Hugh. He hardly knew what was happening. 
He saw his father and mother sitting in the tran¬ 
sept. He thought his mother was crying. He 
hoped not. . . . Some one prayed stupidly. There 
was a hymn. . . . What was it Cynthia had said? 
Oh, yes: “I can’t marry a stranger.” Well, they 
were n’t exactly strangers. . . . He was darn glad 
he had gone to New York. . . . The president 
seemed to be saying over and over again, “By the 
power invested in me . . .” and every time that he 
said it, Professor Blake would slip the loop of a 



330 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


colored hood over the head of a writer or a 
politician—and then it was happening all over 
again. 

Suddenly the class marshal motioned to the 
seniors to rise. They put on their mortar-boards. 
The president said once more, “By the power in¬ 
vested in me . . .” The seniors filed by the presi¬ 
dent, and the grand marshal handed each of them 
a roll of parchment tied with blue and orange rib¬ 
bons. Hugh felt a strange thrill as he took his. 
He was graduated; he was a bachelor of science. 
. . . Back again to their seats. Some one was pro¬ 
nouncing benediction. . . . Music from the organ 
—marching out of the chapel, the surge of friends— 
his father shaking his hand, his mother’s arms 
around his neck; she was crying. . . . 

Graduation was over, and, with it Hugh’s college 
days. Many of the seniors left at once. Hugh 
would have liked to go, too, but his father wanted to 
stay one more day in Haydensville. Besides, there 
was a final senior dance that night, and he thought 
that Hugh ought to attend it. 

Hugh did go to the dance, but somehow it 
brought him no pleasure. Although it was im¬ 
mensely decorous, it reminded him of Cynthia. He 
thought of her tenderly. The best little girl he’d 
ever met. . . . He danced on, religiously steering 
around the sisters and fiancees of his friends, but 
he could not enjoy the dance. Shortly after eleven 




THE PLASTIC AGE 


33 i 

he slipped out of the gymnasium and made one last 
tour of the campus. 

It was a moonlight night, and the campus was 
mysterious with shadows. The elms shook their 
leaves whisperingly; the tower of the chapel looked 
like magic tracery in the moonlight. He paused 
before Surrey Hall, now dark and empty. Good old 
Carl. . . . Carl and Cynthia? He wondered. . . . 
Pudge had roomed there, too. He passed on. 
Keller Hall. Cynthia and Norry. . . . “God, 
what a beast I was that night. How white Norry 
was—and Cynthia, too.” Cynthia again. She’d 
always be a part of Sanford to him. On down to 
the lake to watch the silver path of the moonlight 
and the heavy reflections near the shore. Swim¬ 
ming, canoeing, skating—he and Cynthia in the 
woods beyond. . . . On back to the campus, around 
the buildings, every one of them filled with memo¬ 
ries. Four years—four beautiful, wonderful years. 
... Good old Sanford. . . . 

Midnight struck. Some one turned a switch 
somewhere. The Japanese lanterns suddenly lost 
their colors and faded to gray balloons in the moon¬ 
light. Some men were singing on the Union steps, 
lit was a few seniors, Hugh knew; they had been 
singing for an hour. 

He stood in the center of the campus and listened, 
his eyes full of tears. Earnestly, religiously, the 
men sang, their voices rich with emotion: 


332 


THE PLASTIC AGE 


“Sanford, Sanford, mother of men, 

Love us, guard us, hold us true. 

Let thy arms enfold us; 

Let thy truth uphold us. 

Queen of colleges, mother of men— 

Alma mater—Sanford—hail! 

Alma mater—Hail!—Hail!” 

Hugh walked slowly across the campus toward 
the Nu Delta house. He was both happy and sad 
—happy because the great adventure was before 
him with all its mystery, sad because he was leaving 
something beautiful behind. . . , 
















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